GIFT  OF 
Albin  Putzker 


. 


THE 


SHAKSPEARIAN  READER ;  $ 


A  COLLECTION  OF 


THE    MOST    APPROVED   PLAYS 


OF 


SHAKSPEAEE;       ' 

CAREFULLY  REVISED,  WITH 

INTRODUCTORY  AND  EXPLANATORY  NOTES, 

AND 

A  MEMOIR  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 


PREPARED  EXPRESSLY  FOR  THE  USE  OF  CLASSES,  AND  THB 
FAMILY  READING  CIRCLE. 


BY 

JOHN  W.  S.  HOWS, 

PROFESSOR  OF   ELOCUTION   IN   COLUMBIA   COLLEGE. 


THE  MAN,  whom  NATURE'S  self  had  made 

To  mock  herself,  and  TRUTH  to  imitate. 

Spenser. 


NEW  YOKK: 
D.    APPLETON    AND    COMPANY, 

90,   92  &   94  GRAND    STREET. 
1869. 


ENTEBED,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1849,  by 

D.  APPLETON  «fe  CO., 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  State*  for  the  Southern 
District  of  New  York. 


&L  L 


TO 

THE   HON.   OGDEN   HOFFMAN, 

THIS     ATTEMPT     TO     RENDER 

SHAKSPEARE 

AN  UNEXCEPTIONABLE   CLASS  BOOK, 

AND     AN     ACCEPTABLE     FAMILY     READEB, 
is 


.18 

A  TESTIMONIAL   OF   GRATEFUL  ESTEEM, 
BY 

JOHN  W.  a  HOWS. 


PREFACE. 

AT  a  period  when  the  fame  of  Shakspeare  is  "  striding  the  woild 
like  a  colossus,"  and  editions  of  his  works  are  multiplied  with  a  pro- 
fusion that  testifies  the  desire  awakened  in  all  classes  of  society  to 
read  and  study  his  imperishable  compositions, — there  needs,  perhaps, 
but  little  apology  for  the  following  selections  of  iiis  works,  prepared 
expressly  to  render  them  unexceptionable  for  the  use  of  Schools, 
and  acceptable  for  Family  reading.  Apart  from  the  fact,  that 
Shakspeare  is  the  "  well-spring  "  from  which  may  be  traced  the  ori- 
gin of  the  purest  poetry  in  our  language, — a  long  course  of  profes- 
sional experience  has  satisfied  me  that  a  necessity  exists  for  the 
addition  of  a  work  like  the  present,  to  our  stock  of  Educational 
Literature.  His  writings  are  peculiarly  adapted  for  the  purposes  of 
elocutionary  exercise,  when  the  system  of  instruction  pursued  by  the 
Teacher  is  based  upon  the  true  principle  of  the  art,  viz. — careful 
analysis  of  the  structure  and  meaning  of  language,  rather  than  a 
servile  adherence  to  the  arbitrary  and  mechanical  rules  of  Elocution. 

To  impress  upon  the  mind  of  the  pupil  that  words  are  the  expo- 
sition of  thought,  and  that  in  reading,  or  speaking,  every  shade  of 
thought  and  feeling  has  its  appropriate  shade  of  modulated  tone, 
ought  to  be  the  especial  aim  of  every  Teacher;  and  an  author 
like  Shakspeare,  whose  every  line  embodies  a  volume  of  meaning, 
should  surely  form  one  of  our  Elocutionary  Text  Books.  I  havo 
invariably  found  that  the  attention  of  youthful  pupils  is  more  readily 


Viil  PREFACE. 

awakened  by  the  force  and  beauty  of  his  lang  nage,  than  by  that  ol 
all  other  writers.  Interest  is  uniformly  excited  in  the  student  by 
the  infinite  variety  of  character  that  our  great  poet  introduces  into 
his  creations,  whilst  the  perceptive  faculties  of  the  reader  become 
quickened  and  roused  into  action  by  the  wonderful  power  he  ex- 
hibits in  "  making  his  persons  act  and  speak  by  the  influence  of 
those  general  passions  and  principles  by  which  all  minds  are  agi- 
tated." The  study  of  Elocution,  under  impressions  so  favorable, 
becomes  an  exercise  truly  intellectual,  and  the  objectionable,  but  still 
necessary  mechanism  of  the  art,  is  reduced  to  its  proper  subordinate 
and  auxiliary  position. 

That  his  entire  works  could  not  be  introduced  into  schools  is 
evident ;  nor  do  the  "  Selections,"  "  Beauties,"  and  occasional 
"  Extracts,"  found  in  our  Class  Readers,  precisely  meet  the  wants  of 
a  pupil.  These  are  at  best  the  "  bricks," — unsatisfactory  speci- 
mens of  the  imperishable  structure  that  the  genius  of  our  poet  has 
reared,  for  the  admiration  of  every  age  and  every  clime. 

"  The  real  power  of  Shakspeare  is  not  shown  only  by  particular 
passages,  but  much  also  by  the  progress  of  his  fables  and  the  tenor 
of  his  dialogue."  Unconnected  extracts  will  always  fail  to  interest 
and  impress  the  young  to  the  same  extent  as  a  coherent  story  and 
an  animated  scene. 

Acting  upon  these  convictions,  I  have  endeavored  to  extract  the 
essence,  as  it  were,  of  sixteen  of  Shakspeare's  most  approved  Dra- 
mas— preserving  in  each  the  main  story  entire,  by  the  aid  of  brief 
explanatory  notes  connecting  the  selections.  The  strictly  poetical 
passages  have  been  generally  retained  in  preference  to  the  comic 
portions,  my  limits  compelling  me  to  a  choice  between  the  two. 
Conceding  the  necessity  of  this  almost  imperative  choice,  I  believe 
that  the  selections  are  those,  to  which  the  lovers  of  Shakspeare 
most  frequently  and  most  satisfactorily  recur. 

Of  the  liberties  I  hava  been  compelled  to  take  with  my  author 


PREFACE.  IX 

[  scarcely  know  how  to  speak  with  becoming  propriety.  I  profess 
to  share  the  common  veneration  entertained  for  the  pure  unmutilated 
text  of  Shakspeare  ;  and  can  estimate  at  what  it  is  worth  that  ultra 
fastidiousness,  which  denounces  the  great  "  Poet  of  Nature "  for 
having  made  his  characters  speak  agreeably  to  the  spirit  of  his  own 
age.  Still,  in  preparing  a  selection  of  his  works  for  the  express  pur- 
pose contemplated  in  my  design,  I  have  not  hesitated  to  exercise  a 
severe  revision  of  his  language,  beyond  that  adopted  in  any  similar 
undertaking—"  Bowdler's  Family  Shakspeare  "  not  even  excepted  ;— 
ind  simply,  because  I  practically  know  the  impossibility  of  intro- 
ducing Shakspeare  as  a  Class  Book,  or  as  a  satisfactory  Reading 
Book  for  Families,  without  this  precautionary  revision. 

To  render  the  selections  better  adapted  for  expressive  reading, 
I  have  also  ventured  to  disencumber  several  passages  of  unneces~ 
sary  circumlocution,  consulting  standard  authorities  to  aid  me  in  this 
portion  of  my  labors. 

I  may  be  held  amenable  at  the  bar  of  criticism,  for  what  may  be 
deemed  by  many  a  profanation  of  Shakspeare. 

In  extenuation  of  my  temerity,  I  may  be  permitted  to  say,  that 
although  the  undertaking  of  such  a  work  as  the  present,  has  been 
urged  upon  me  by  convictions,  practically  enforced,  of  its  necessity, 
I  hnve  long  been  restrained  from  making  the  attempt  from  con- 
scientious scruples  as  to  its  propriety.  But  to — 

"Do*  great  right," 

I  have  done 

"  A  little  wrong." 

Shakspeare,  in  the  original,  is  effectually  excluded  from  OUT 
Schools ;  and  modern  refinement  is  fast  banishing  him  from  the 
Home  Reading  Circle.  To  bring  his  profound  moral  and  intellec- 
tual teachings  to  bear  upon  the  early  mental  training  of  the  young, 
und  to  extend  his  genial  influences  around  the  Domestic  Hearth, 


X  PREFACE. 

seemed  to  me  justifiable  attempts ;  expedient  to  be  made  at  all 
hazards. 

I  have  therefore  prepared  these  selections  with  such  a  carefully 
expurgated  Text,  that  the  Book  may  be  introduced  into  our  Schools 
with  perfect  confidence,  by  the  most  fastidious  Teacher ;  and  with 
equal  propriety  it  can  be  used  for  reading  aloud  in  the  most  refined 
and  pure-minded  Family,  or  Social  Circle. 

In  justice  to  myself,  I  may  be  permitted  to  add,  that  I  have 
avoided,  as  far  as  it  was  practicable  with  the  nature  of  my  design, 
the  substitution  of  any  language  of  my  own  for  the  pure  text  of 
Shakspeare.  I  have  been  compelled  occasionally  tr  resort  to  the 
use  of  synonymes,  but  these  have  been  adopted  but  sparingly. 
When  difficulties  beset  me  in  the  original,  I  have  preferred,  in  most 
cases,  excision  to  alteration.  I  may  possibly  have 

"  Cat  beyond  the  wound, 

To  make  the  cure  complete  ;" 

but  there  is  high  medical  authority  for  believing  that  this  is  the 
most  successful  treatment  in  desperate  cases. 

With  this  explanatory,  and  I  may  add,  deprecatory  preface,  1 
submit  the  result  of  my  humble,  but  very  toilsome  labors,  to  the 
test  of  public  opinion. 

NBW-YoRK,  February  22,  J849 


LIFE 

'ip 

WILLIAM    SHAKSPEARE. 


THE  few  incidents  in  Shakspeare's  life  are  surrounded  with 
doubt  and  fable ;'  indeed,  until  lately,  little  could  be  said  of  hia 
Biography,  but  that  "  he  was  born,  lived,  and  died."  The  researches 
of  Malone,  and  more  recently  those  of  Collier,  Knight,  and  Halliwell, 
have  however  thrown  some  light  on  the  Poet's  history,  and  from 
these  authorities  we  are  enabled  to  compile  a  brief  memoir  of  his  life 
sufficient  for  our  present  design,  referring  the  youthful  student  to  the 
more  elaborate  sources  to  which  we  are  indebted. 

William  Shakspeare  was  born  at  Stratford -upon- Avon,  in  the 
county  of  Warwick,  England,  in  April,  1564.  He  was  baptized  on 
the  26th  of  the  month,  and  a  tradition  exists  that  he  was  born  on 
the  23d  April,  tfie  anniversary  of  St.  George  the  tutelar  Saint  of  Eng- 
land. His  father,  John  Shakspeare,  was  a  wool-comber,  or  glover,  who 
had  risen  above  hia  somewhat  obscure  position  by  marrying  a  rural 
heiress,  Mary  Arden,  possessed  of  a  small  estate  in  Warwickshire. 
Shakspeare's  father  rose  to  be  high  bailiff  and  chief  alderman  of  Strat- 
ford ;  but  became  depressed  in  circumstances  about  the  year  1578. 

William  was  the  eldest  of  six  surviving  children,  and  after  re- 
ceiving some  education  in  the  grammar  school  of  his  native  town, 
he  is  sajd  to  have  been  brought  home  to  assist  in  his  father's  business. 
There  is  an  entire  blank  in  his  history  for  several  years  of  his  early 
life,  but  it  may  well  be  conjectured,  that  he  was  then  treasuring  up 
materials  for  those  imperishable  works  which  have  rendered  him  the 
most  eminent  genius  the  world  has  ever  produced.  Some  of  his 
biographers  have  endeavored  to  prove  that  a  portion  of  this  period 
was  passed  in  a  lawyer's  office,  from  the  familiaritv  he  exhibits  in  his 


XIV  LIFE   OF   WILLIAM    SHAKSPEARE. 

works,  with  technical  legal  phrase  and  illustrations.  But  similar 
evidence  might  be  adduced  to  prove  his  preparation  for  the  church, 
or  for  the  medical  profession,  for  his  works  abound  in  the  profoundest 
theological  truths,  and  he  appears  to  be  equally  well  skilled  in  the 
elementary  knowledge  of  medical  science. 

The  amount  of  Shakspeare's  educational  acquirements  has  been 
the  subject  of  eager  scrutiny  and  controversy.  Ben  Jonson,  with 
whom  he  was  on  terms  of  intimate  acquaintance,  says,  he  had  "  little 
Latin  and  less  Greek."  This  is  admitting  that  he  knew  something 
of  both  languages.  His  choice  of  two  classical  subjects  for  his  early 
poetry,  Venus  and  Adonis,  and  Lucrece,  and  the  numerous  allusions 
in  his  Plays  to  the  mythology  of  the  ancients,  appear  to  warrant  the 
conclusion  that  he  was,  at  least,  deeply  imbued  with  the  spirit  and 
taste  of  classical  literature.  But,  genius  such  as  Shakspeare's  did 
not  derive  its  inspiration  from  mere  classical  learning.  He  was 
doubtless  an  irregular  student,  yet  his  native  intellect  and  com- 
prehensive mind  enabled  him,  by  study  and  observation,  and  "  al- 
most by  intuition,  to  treasure  up  stores  of  knowledge  by  which  he 
subsequently  distanced  all  the  university-bred  wits  and  authors  of  his 
times." 

On  the  28th  of  November,  1582,  Shakspeare  was  married  to  Anne 
Hathaway,  the  daughter  of  a  "  substantial  yeoman  "  of  the  village  of 
Shottery,  about  a  mile  from  Stratford,  and  in  the  year  1586,  it  is 
ascertained  that  he  removed  to  London,  and  commenced  the  occupa- 
tion  of  a  Player. 

Much  conjectural  speculation  has  been  expended  upon  the  pro- 
bable causes,  which  induced  Shakspeare  to  adopt  the  profession  of  an 
actor,  but  no  authentic  accounts  can  be  traced  to  ascertain  the  pre- 
cise facts.  During  the  period  of  his  father's  elevation  to  office, 
companies  of  players  were  frequently  in  the  habit  of  performing  at 
Stratford ;  among  these  players  were  several  who  were  Shakspeare's 
townsmen.  An  acquaintance  with  these  persons  may  naturally  have 
been  formed  by  the  future  Dramatist,  and  when  circumstances  in- 
duced him  to  quit  Stratford,  the  intimacy  with  his  old  associates  may 
have  been  resumed  and  his  connection  with  the  stage  decided  upon. 

Shakspeare  soon  rose  to  distinction  in  the  theatre,  for  in  the  year 
1689  he  became  a  shareholder  in  the  Blackfriars  Theatre.  In  1596 
ne  was  a  proprietor,  and  in  1603  he  was  named  second  in  a  new  patent 


LIFE   OF    WILLIAM    SHAKSPEARE.  XV 

granted  to  the  King's  Players,  by  James  I.,  on  that  monarch's  acces* 
eion  to  the  British  throne. 

That  the  extraordinary  powers  of  Shakspeare  as  a  Dramatic 
writer,  was  the  cause  of  his  rapid  elevation  in  the  theatre,  is  a  fact 
almost  beyond  dispute,  for  his  talents  as  an  actor  never  appear  to 
have  risen  beyond  a  respectable  mediocrity.  A  contemporary  author- 
ity (supposed  to  be  Lord  Southampton)  says  that  he  was  "  of  good 
account  in  the  company ;"  and  traditionary  evidence  assigns  him  tho 
character  of  the  "  Ghost  in  Hamlet,"  and  "  Adam  in  As  you  like 
It,"  as  being  among  the  chief  parts  he  sustained  in  his  own  plays. 

With  the  nobles,  the  wits,  and  poets  of  his  day,  he  lived  in  fami- 
liar intercourse.  Even  royalty  unbended  to  do  honor  to  the  immortal 
Dramatist ;  his  Plays  were  the  favorite  recreation  of  the  haughty 
Elizabeth,  and  even  the  weak-minded  James  I.  was  not  insensible 
to  the  genius  of  the  great  Poet.  Ben  Jonson,  in  a  eulogy  on  Shaks- 
peare, speaks  of  his  Dramas,  "  That  so  did  take  Eliza  and  our 
James  ;"  and  other  contemporary  authorities  confirm  the  fact  of  his 
popularity. 

It  is  likely  that  Shakspeare  began  his  career  as  a  Dramatic 
Author  by  altering  and  adapting  Plays  for  the  Stage,  furnished  by 
other  Dramatists,  and  subsequently,  as  he  felt  his  powers  expand,  he 
poured  forth  in  rapid  succession  that  series  of  splendid  Dramas,  which 
are  the  imperishable  monuments  of  his  genius.  No  distinct  chrono- 
logical account  can  be  given  of  these  wonderful  productions.  It  is 
however  tolerably  well  established,  that  the  whole  of  the  thirty-seven 
Plays  were  produced  before  the  year  1612,  as  it  is  supposed  in  that 
year  he  retired  finally  to  his  native  town,  where  he  had  previously 
purchased  an  estate,  called  New  Place,  the  principal  house  in  Strat- 
ford. He  had  by  this  time  acquired  a  handsome  competency ;  and,  in 
the  words  of  his  biographer  Rowe,  "  The  latter  part  of  his  life  was 
spent,  as  all  men  of  good  sense  will  wish  theirs  to  be,  in  ease,  retire- 
ment, and  the  conversation  of  his  friends." 

Four  years  were  passed  by  Shakspeare  in  this  dignified  retirement. 
He  died  on  the  23d  April,  1616,  having  just  completed  his  fifty- 
second  year.  His  widow  survived  him  seven  years.  His  two 
daughters  were  both  married  at  the  time  of  his  death,  (his  only  son, 
Hanmet,  had  died  in  1596,)  but  all  these  died  without  issue,  and  there 
now  remains  no  lineal  representative  of  the  Poet.  He  was  interred 


StVl          •  LIFE    OF    WILLIAM    SHAKSPEARB. 

in  the  Church  of  Stratford-upon-Avon,  where  a  monument  to  hid 
memory  still  exists  in  good  preservation,  and  a  flat  grave-stone  in 
front  of  the  monument  indicates  the  Poet's  grave.  On  the  stone  is 
inscribed  these  lines,  which  tradition  ascribes  to  be  his  own  composi- 
tion. 

"  Good  frend,  for  lesvs  sake  forbeare 
To  digg  the  dvst  encloased  heare  : 
Blese  be  ye  man  yt  spares  thes  stones, 
And  cvrst  be  he  yt  moves  my  bones." 

We  close  this  brief  and  unsatisfactory  memoir  of  the  life  of 
Shakspeare,  by  the  following  comprehensive  summary  of  his  charac- 
ter, by  Hallam  the  Historian. 

"  The  name  of  Shakspeare  is  the  greatest  in  our  literature.  No 
man  ever  came  near  to  him  in  the  creative  powers  of  his  mind ;  no 
man  had  ever  such  strength  at  once,  and  such  variety  of  u 


CONTENTS. 


I* 

HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK, lr 

UCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING, 53* 

ACBETH, •        .        .        •  79. 

As  You  LIKE  IT,  .         . Ill 

OTHELLO,    .....        145 

HE  TEMPEST, 172 

j>  ROMEO  AND  JULIET, 201 

•jjTHE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE, 235 

^KING  LEAR,' 262 

I  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM,   .......  299 

•^JULIUS  CJESAR, .  318 

^TWELFTH-NIGHT  ;  Or,  WHAT  You  Wni,       ....  355 

^MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE,     ........  372 

4-KiNG  JOHN,     ....                .....  385 

HENRY  IV, 414 

HENRV  VIII, .428 


v, 


HAMLET, 

PRINCE    OF   DENMARK. 


SHAKSPEARK  is  supposed  to  have  taken  the  Plot  of  this  Play,  ficra  "  the  Hh/tory  of 
Hamlet,"  as  it  is  found  narrated  in  Saxo  Grammaticus,  the  Danish  Historian.  An  English 
translation  of  this  particular  story  was  published  during  the  Poet's  life,  entitled  "  Historie 
of  Hamblet,  Prince  of  Denmark,"  and  from  this  version,  it  is  conjectured  that  Shak- 
gpeare  drew  the  materials,  which  have  assisted  him  in  this  master-piece  of  tragic  com- 
position. As  this  Play  is  the  most  finished  and  the  most  popular  of  our  Author's 
productions,  we  have  incorporated  into  our  selections  nearly  all  the  prominent  scenes. 

We  cannot  better  introduce  the  youthful  student  into  a  just  discrimination  of  tho 
leading  characteristics  of  Hamlet,  than  by  furnishing  the  following  clear  analysis  from  the 
pen  of  Goethe.  He  says — 

"  It  is  clear  to  me  that  Shakspeare's  intention  was  to  exhibit  tho  effects  of  a  grcut 
action  imposed  as  a  duty  upon  a  mind  too  feeble  for  its  accomplishment. 

"  In  this  sense,  I  find  the  character  consistent  throughout.  There  is  an  oak  planted  in 
a  china  vase,  proper  only  to  receive  the  most  delicate  flowers  ;  the  roots  strike  out,  and 
the  vessel  flies  to  pieces.  A  pure,  noble,  highly  moral  disposition,  but  without  that 
energy  of  soul  which  constitutes  the  hero,  sinks  under  a  load  which  it  can  neither  support 
nor  resolve  to  abandon  altogether.  Jill  his  obligations  are  sacred  to  him  ;  but  this  alone 
is  above  his  powers. 

"  An  impossibility  is  required  at  his  hands  ;  not  an  impossibility  in  itself,  but  that  which 
is  so  to  him.  Observe  how  he  shifts,  turns,  hesitates,  advances,  and  recedes  ;  how  he  ia 
continually  reminded  and  reminding  himself  of  his  great  commission,  which  he,  neverthe- 
fejS,  in  the  end,  seems  almost  entirely  to  lose  sight  of;  and  this  without  ever  recovering 
his  former  tranquillity." 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 

CLAUDIUS,  King  of  Denmark. 

HAMLET,  son  to  the  former,  and  ncph(io  to  the  present  King. 

POLONIUS,  Lord  Chamberlain. 

HORATIO,  friend  to  Hamlet. 

LAERTES,  son  to  Polonius. 

2 


READER* 


VOLTLMAND,  CORNELIUS,  >  Courtier*. 

ROSENCRANTZ,  GuiLDENSTERN,      V 


OSRIC,  a  Courtier. 

Another  Courtier. 

A  Priest. 

MARCELLUS,  )  ,-,-,. 

BERNARDO,     \  Officers' 

FRANCISCO,  a  soldier. 

REYNALDO,  servant  to  Polonius. 

A  Captain. 

An  Ambassador. 

Ghost  of  Hamlet's  father. 

FORTINBRAS,  Prince  of  Norway. 

GERTRUDE,  Queen  of  Denmats,  and  mother  of  Hamlet. 
OPHELIA,  daughter  of  Polonius. 

Lords,  Ladies,  Officers,  Soldiers,  Players,  Grave-diggers,  Sailors,,  Me* 
sengers,  and  other  Attendants. 

SCENE,— ELSINORE. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I.— Elsinore.     A  Platform  before  the  Castle* 
FRANCISCO  on  his  post.    Enter  to  Mm  BERNARDO. 

Ber.  Who's  there  ? 

Fran.  Nay,  answer  me  :  stand,  and  unfold 

Yourself. 

Ber.  Long  live  the  king  ! 

Fran.  Bernardo  ? 

Ber.  He. 

Fran.  You  come  most  carefully  upon  your  hov.r. 

Ber.  'Tis  now  struck  twelve ;  get  thee  to  bed,  Francisco. 

Fran.  For  this  relief,  much  thanks  :  'tis  bitter  cold, 
And  I  am  sick  at  heart. 

Ber.  Have  you  had  quiet  guard  ? 

Fran.  Not  a  mouse  stirring. 

Ber.  Well,  good  night. 
!f  you  do  meet  Horatio  and  Marcellus, 
The  rivals  of  my  watch,  bid  them  make  haste. 

Enter  HORATIO  and  MARCELLUS. 

Fran.  I  think  I  hear  them — Stand,  ho !     Who  is  there  ? 

Hor.  Friends  to  this  ground. 

Mar.  And  liegemen  to  the  Dane. 

Fran.  Give  you  good  night. 

Mar.  O,  farewell,  honest  soldier ; 

Who  hath  reliev'd  you  ? 


HAMLET.  <j 

Fran.  Bernardo  hath  my  place. 

Give  you  good  n.ght.  [Exit  FRANCISCO. 

Mar.  Holla,  Bernardo ! 

Ber.  Say. 

What,  is  Horatio  there  ? 

Hor.  A  piece  of  him. 

Ber.  Welcome,  Horatio ;  welcome,  good  Marcellus. 

Hor.  What,  has  this  thing  appear'd  again  to-night  ? 

Ber.  I  have  seen  nothing. 

Mar.  Horatio  says,  'tis  but  our  fantasy ; 
And  will  not  let  belief  take  hold  of  him, 
Touching  this  dreaded  sight,  twice  seen  of  us  : 
Therefore  I  have  entreated  him,  along 
With  us  to  watch  the  minutes  of  this  night ; 
That,  :f  again  this  apparition  come, 
He  may  approve  our  eyes,  and  speak  to  it. 

Hor.  Tush !  tush !  'twill  not  appear. 

Ber.  Sit  down  awhile ; 

And  let  us  once  again  assail  your  ears, 
That  are  so  fortified  against  our  story, 
What  we  two  nights  have  seen. 

Hor.  Well,  sit  we  down, 

And  let  us  hear  Bernardo  speak  of  this. 

Ber.  Last  night  of  all, 

When  yon  same  star,  that's  westward  from  the  pole, 
Had  made  his  course  to  illume  that  part  of  heaven 
Where  now  it  burns,  Marcelius,  and  myself, 
The  bell  then  beating  one, — 

Mar.  Peace,  break  thee  off;  look,  where  it  comes  again ! 

Enter  Ghost. 

Ber.  In  the  same  figure,  like  the  king  that's  dead. 

Mar.  Thou  art  a  scholar,  speak  to  it,  Horatio. 

Ber.  Looks  it  not  like  the  king  ?  mark  it,  Horatio. 

Hor.  Most  like :  it  harrows  me  with  fear,  and  wonder. 

Ber.  It  would  be  spoke  to. 

Mar.  Speak  to  it,  Horatio. 

Hor.  What  art  thou,  that  usurp'st  this  time  of  night, 
Together  with  that  fair  and  warlike  form 
In  which  the  majesty  of  buried  Denmark 
Did  sometimes  march  ?  by  heaven  I  charge  thec,  speak. 

Mar.  It  is  offended. 

Ber.  See  !  it  stalks  away. 

Hor.  Stay ;  speak  :  speak,!  charge  thee.  speak.          [ExU  Ghosl 

Mar.  'Tis  gone,  and  will  not  answer. 

Ber.  How  now,  Horatio  ?  you  tremble,  and  look  pale  : 
Is  not  .this  something  more  than  fantasy  ? 
What  think  you  of  it  ? 

Hor.  I  might  not  this  boliovo. 


4  SHAKSPEAKIAN    HEADER. 

Without  the  sensible  and  true  avouch 
Of  mine  .own  eyes. 

Mar.  Is  it  not  like  the  king  ? 

-     Hor.  As  thou  art  to  thyself: 
Such  was  the  very  armour  he  had  on, 
When  he  the  ambitious  Norway  combated  ; 
So  frown'd  he  once,  when,  in  an  angry  parle, 
He  smote  the  sledded  Polack  on  the  ice. 
'Tis  strange. 

Mar.  Thus,  twice  before,  and  jump  at  this  detjd  hour> 
With  martial  stalk  hath  he  gone  by  our  watch. 

//br.>  In  what  particular  thought  to  work,  I  know  not  \ 
Bat,  in  the  gross  and  scope  of  mine  opinion, 
This  bodes  some  strange  eruption  to  our  state. 
In  the  most  high  and  palmy  state  of  Rome, 
A  little  ere  the  mightiest  Junius  fell, 
The  graves  stood  tenantless,  and  the  sheeted  dead 
Did  squeak  and  gibber  in  the  Roman  streets. 
As,  stars  with  trains  of  fire  shed  dews  of  blood, 
Disaster's  dimm'd  the  sun ;  and  the  moist  star, 
Upon  whose  influence  Neptune's  empire  stands, 
Was  sick  almost  to  dooms-day  with  eclipse. 
And  even  the  like  precurse  of  fierce  events, — 
As  harbingers  preceding  still  the  fates, 
And  prologue  to  the  omen  coming  on, — 
Have  heaven  and  earth  together  demonstrated 
Unto  our  climates  and  countrymen. — 

Re-enter  Ghost. 

But,  soft ;  behold  !  lo,  where  it  comes  again ! 
I'll  cross  it,  though  it  blast  me. — Stay,  illusion  I 
If  thou  hast  any  sound,  or  use  of  voice, 
Speak  to  me : 

If  there  be  any  good  thing  to  be  done, 
That  may  to  thee  do  ease,  and  grace  to  me 
Speak  to  me : 

If  thou  art  privy  to  thy  country's  fate, 
Which,  happily,  foreknowing  may  avoid, 
O,  speak  ! 

Or,  if  thou  hast  uphoarded  in  thy  life 
Extorted  treasure  from  the  depths  of  earth, 
For  which,  they  say,  you  spirits  oft  walk  in  death : 
Speak  of  it :— stay,  and  speak.  [Exit  Ghost 

Mar.  'Tis  gone ! 

We  do  it  wrong,  being  so  majestic al, 
To  offer  it  the  show  of  violence. 

Ber.  It  was  about  to  speak,  when  the  cock  crew. 

Hor.  And  then  it  started  like  a  guilty  thing 
Upon  a  fearful  summons.     I  have  heard, 


HAMLET.  O 

The  cock,  that  is  the  trumpet  to"  the  morn, 
Doth  with  his  lofty  and  shrill-sounding  throat 
Awake  the  god  of  day  ;  and,  at  his  warning, 
Whether  in  sea  or  fire,  in  earth  or  air, 
The  extravagant  and  erring  spirit  hies 
To  his  confine  :  and  of  the  truth  hereij 
This  present  object  made  probation. 

Mar.  It  faded  on  the  crowing  of  the  cock. 
Some  say,  that  ever  'gainst  that  season  comes 
Wherein  our  Saviour's  birth  is  celebrated, 
This  bird  of  dawning  singeth  all  night  long : 
And  then,  they  say,  no  spirit  dares  stir  abroad ; 
The  nights  are  wholesome ;  then  no  planets  strike, 
No  fairy  takes,  nor  witch  hath  power  to  harm, 
So  hallow'd  and  so  gracious  is  the  time. 

Hor.  So  have  I  heard,  and  do  in  part  believe  it. 
But,  look,  the  morn,  in  russet  mantle  clad, 
Walks  o'er  the  dew  of  yon  high  eastern  hill : 
Break  we  our  watch  up ;  and,  by  my  advice, 
Let  us  impart  what  we  have  seen  to-night 
Unto  young  Hamlet :  for,  upon  my  life, 
This  spirit,  dumb  to  us,  will  speak  to  him  : 
Do  you  consent  we  shall  acquaint  him  with  it, 
As  needful  in  our  loves,  fitting  our  duty  ? 

Mar.  Let's  do't,  I  pray ;  and  I  this  morning  know 
Where  we  shall  find  him  most  convenient.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — The  same.     A  Room  of  State  in  tlie  same. 

Enter  the  KING,  QUEEN,  HAMLET,  POLONIUS,  LAERTES,  Lorcp,  ind 
Attendants. 

King.  Though  yet  of  Hamlet  our  dear  brother's  death 
The  memory  be  green ;  and  that  it  us  befitted 
To  bear  our  hearts  in  grief,  and  our  whole  kingdom 
To  be  contracted  in  one  brow  of  woe  ; 
Yet  so  far  hath  discretion  fought  with  nature, 
That  we  with  wisest  sorrow  think  on  him, 
Together  with  remembrance  of  ourselves. 
Therefore  our  sometime  sister,  now  our  queen, 
The  imperial  jointress  of  this  warlike  state, 
Have  we,  as  'twere,  with  a  defeated  joy, — 
Taken  to  wife :  nor  have  we  herein  barr'd 
Your  better  wisdoms,  which  have  freely  gone 
With  this  affair  along : — For  all,  our  thanks. 
And  now,  Laertes,  what's  the  news  with  you  ? 
You  told  us  of  some  suit  ?     What  is't,  Laertes  ? 

Laertes.  My  dread  lord, 
Your  leave  and  favor  to  return  to  France; 


r 

()  SIIAKSPEARIAN    READER, 

From  whence  though  willingly  I  came  to  Denmark, 

To  show  my  duty  in  your  coronation  ; 

Yet  now,  I  must  confess,  that  duty  done, 

My  thoughts  and  wishes  bend  again  toward  France, 

And  bow  them  to  your  gracious  leave  and  pardon. 

King.  Have  you  your  father's  leave  ?     What  says  Polrmius? 

Pol.  He  hath,  my  lord, — 
I  do  beseech  you,  give  him  leave  to  go. 

King.  Take  thy  fair  hour,  Laertes ;  time  be  thine, 
And  thy  best  graces :  spend  it  at  thy  will. — 
But  now,  my  cousin  Hamlet,  and  my  son, 

Ham.  A  little  more  than  kin,  and  less  than  kind.      [Aside. 

King.  How  is  it  that  the  clouds  still  hang  on  you  1 

Ham.  Not  so,  my  lord,  I  am  too  much  i'  the  sun. 

Queen.  Good  Hamlet,  cast  thy  nighted  color  off. 
And  let  thine  eye  look  like  a  friend  on  Denmark. 
Do  not,  for  ever,  with  thy  vailed  lids 
Seek  for  thy  noble  father  in  the  dust : 
Thou  know'st,  'tis  common ;  all  that  live,  must  die, 
Passing  through  nature  to  eternity. 

Ham.  Ay,  madam,  it  is  common. 

queen.  If  it  be, 

Why  seems  it  so  particular  with  thee  ? 

Ham.  Seems,  madam  !  nay,  it  is ;  I  know  not  seems. 
'Tis  not  alone  my  inky  cloak,  good  mother, 
Nor  customary  suits  of  solemn  black, 
Nor  windy  suspiration  of  forc'd  breath, 
No,,  nor  the  fruitful  river  in  the  eye, 
Nor  the  dejected  'havior  of  the  visage, 
Together  with  all  forms,  modes,  shows  of  grief, 
That  can  denote  me  truly :  These,  indeed,1  seem, 
For  they  are  actions  that  a  man  might  play  : 
But  I  have  that  within,  which  passeth  show  •        &i*A4LJr\ 
These,  but  the  trappings  and  the  suits  of  woe.  •     / 

King.  'Tis  sweet  and  commendable  in  your  nature,  Hamlet, 
To  give  these  mourning  duties  to  your  father: 
But,  you  must  know,  your  father  lost  a  father ; 
That  father  lost,  lost  his ;  and  the  survivor  bound, 
In  filial  obligation,  for  some  term 
To  do  obsequious  sorrow :  But  to  perse ver 
In  obstinate  condolement,  is  a  course 
Of  impious  stubbornness;  'tis  unmanly  grief: 
It  shows  a  will  most  incorrect  to  heaven  j 
A  heart  unfortified,  or  mind  impatient : 
An  understanding  simple  and  unschool'd : 
For  what,  we  know,  must  be ;  and  is  as  common 
As  any  of  the  most  vulgar  thing  to  sense, 
Why  should  we,  in  our  peevish  opposition, 
Take  it  to  heart  ?    Fye  !  'tis  a  fault  to  heaven. 


HAMLET.  7 

Wo  pray  you,  throw  to  earth 
This  unprevailing  woe  ;  and  think  of  us 
-As  of  a  father :  for  let  the  world  take  note, 
You  are  the  most  immediate  to  our  throne ; 
Our  chiefest  courtier,  cousin,  and  our  son. 

Queen.  Let  not  thy  mother  lose  her  prayers,  Hamlet; 
I  pray  thee  stay  with  us  ;  go  not  to  Wittenberg. 

Ham.  I  shall  in  all  my  best  obey  you,  madam. 

King.  Why,  'tis  a  loving  and  a  fair  reply  ; 
Be  as  ourself  in  Denmark. — Madam,  come  ; 
This  gentle  and  unforc'd  accord  of  Hamlet 
Sits  smiling  to  my  heart :  in  grace  whereof, 
No  jocund  health,  that  Denmark  drinks  to-day 
But  the  great  cannon  to  the  clouds  shall  tell ; 
Re-speaking  earthly  thunder.     Come  away. 

[Exeunt  KING,  QUEEN,  LORDS,  cf  c.,  POLONIUS,  and  LAERTES 

Ham.  O,  that  this  too  too  solid  flesh  would  melt, 
Thaw,  and  resolve  itself  into  a  dew  ! 
Or  that  the  Everlasting  had  riot  fix'd 
His  canon  'gainst  self-slaughter  ! 
How  weary,  stale,  flat,  and  unprofitable 
Seem  to  me  all  the  uses  of  this  world  ! 
Fye  on't !  O  fye  !  'tis  an  unweeded  garden, 
That  grows  to  seed ;  things  rank,  and  gross  in  nature, 
Possess  it  merely.     That  it  should  come  to  this ! 
But  two  months  dead ! — nay,  not  so  much,  not  two ; 
So  excellent  a  king ;  that  was,  to  this, 
Hyperion  to  a  satyr :  so  loving  to  my  mother, 
That  he  might  not  beteem  the  winds  of  heaven 
Visit  her  face  too  roughly.     Heaven  and  earth ! 
Must  I  remember  ?    And  yet,  within  a  month, — 
Let  me  not  think  on't ; — Frailty,  thy  name  is  woman ! — 
A  little  month ;  or. ere  those  shoes  were  old, 
With  which  she  follow'd  my  poor  father's  body, 
Like  Niobe,  all  tears ; — why  she,  even  she, — 
O  neaven  !  a  beast,  that  wants  discourse  of  reason, 
Would  have  mourn'd  longer, — married  with  my  uncle, 
My  father's  brother ;  but  no  more  like  my  father, 
Than  I  to  Hercules  : 
It  is  not,  nor  it  cannut  come  to,  good ; 
But  break,  my  heart ;  for  I  must  hold  my  tongue  ! 

Enter  HORATIO,  BERNARDO,  and  MARCELLUS. 

Hor.  Hail  to  your  lordship  ! 

Ham.  I  am  glad  to  see  you  well 

Horatio, — or  I  do  forget  myself. 
Hor.  The  same,  my  lord,  and  your  poor  servant  ever. 
Ham.  Sir,  my  good  friend  ;  I'll  change  that  name  with  you. 


$  SUAKSPEARIAN    HEADEll. 

And  what  make  you  from  Wittenberg,  Horatio  ?— 
Marcellus  ? 

Mar.  My  good  lord. 

Ham.  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you ;  good  even,  sir, — 
But  what,  in  faith,  make  you  from  Wittenberg  ? 

Hor.  A  truant  disposition,  good  my  lord. 

Ham.  I  would  not  hear  your  enemy  say  so ; 
Nor  shall  you  do  mine  ear  that  violence, 
To  make  it  truster  of  your  own  report 
Against  yourself:  I  know,  you  are  no  truant. 
But  what  is  your  affair  in  Elsinore  ? 
We'll  teach  you  to  drink  deep,  ere  you  depart. 

Hor.  My  lord,  I  came  to  see  your  father's  funeral. 

Ham.  I  pray  thee,  do  not  mock  me,  fellow-student ; 
I  think,  it  was  to  see  my  mother's  wedding. 

Hor.  Indeed,  my  lord,  it  follow'd  hard  upon. 

Ham.  Thrift,  thrift,  Horatio !  the  funeral  bak'd  meats 
Did  coldly  furnish  forth  the  marriage  tables. 
'Would  I  had  met  my  dearest  foe  in  heaven 
Or  ever  I  had  ?een  that  day,  Horatio  .' — 
My  father, — Methinks.  I  see  my  father. 

Hor.  Where, 

My  lord? 

Ham.  In  my  mind's,  eye,  Horatio. 

Hor.  I  saw  him  once,  he  was  a  goodly  king. 

Ham.  He  was  a  man,  take  him  for  all  in  all, 
I  shall  not  look  upon  his  like  again. 

Hor.  My  lord,  I  think  I  saw  him  yesterntrlit. 

Ham.  Saw!  who? 

Hor.  My  lord,  the  king  your  father. 

Ham.  The  king  my  father  I 

Hor.  Season  your  admiration  for  a  while 
With  an  attent  ear  ;  till  I  may  deliver, 
Upon  the  witness  of  these  gentlemen, 
This  marvel  to  you. 

Ham.  For  heaven's  love,  let  me  hear. 

Hor.  Two  nio-ljts  together  had  these  gentlemen, 
Marcellus  and  Bernardo,  on  their  watch, 
In  the  dead  waist  and  middle  of  the  night, 
Been  thus  encounter'd.     A  figure  like  your  fatiiei, 
Armed  at  point,  exactly,  cap-ii-pe, 
Appears  before  them,  and.  with  solemn  march, 
Goes  slow  and  stately  by  them  :  thrice  he  walk'd, 
Bj  their  oppress'd  and  fear-surprised  eyes, 
Within  his  truncheon's  length ;  whilst  they,  distil  I'd 
Almost  to  jelly  with  the  act  of  fear, 
Stand  dumb,  and  speak  not  to  him.     This  to  me 
tn  dreadful  secrecy  impart  they  did ; 


HAMLET. 

And  I  with  them,  the  third  night  kept  the  watch ; 
Where,  as  they  had  deliver'd,  both  in  time, 
Form  of  the  thing,  each  word  made  true  arid  good, 
The  apparition  comes  :  I  knew  your  father ; 
These  hands  are  not  more  like. 

Ham.  But  where  was  this  ? 

Mar.  My  lord,  upon  the  platform  where  we  watch'd. 

Ham.  Did  you  not  speak  to  it  ? 

Hor.  My  lord,  I  did  : 

But  answer  made  it  none :  yet  once,  .rethought, 
It  lifted  up  its  head,  and  did  address 
Itself  to  motion,  like  as  it  would  speak  : 
But,  even  then,  the  morning  cock  crew  loud ; 
And  at  the  sound  it  shrunk  in  haste  away, 
And  vanish'd  from  our  sight. 

Ham.  'Tis  very  strange. 

Hor.  As  I  do  live,  my  honor'd  lord,  'tis  true  ; 
And  we  did  think  it  writ  down  in  our  duty, 
To  let  you  know  of  it. 

Ham.  Indeed,  indeed,  sirs,  but  this  troubles  me. 
Hold  you  the  watch  to-night  ? 

All.  We  do,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Arm'djSay  you  ? 

All.  Arm'd,  my  lord. 

Ham.  From  top  to  toe  ? 

All.  My  lord,  from  head  to  foot. 

Ham.  Then  saw  you  not 

His  face. 

Hor.  O,  yes,  my  lord ;  ho  wore  his  beaver  up. 

Ham.  What,  look'd  he  frowningly  ? 

Hor.  A  countenance  more 

In  sorrow  than  in  anger. 

Ham.  Pale,  or  red  ? 

Hor.  Nay,  very  pale. 

Ham.  And  fix'd  his  eyes  upon  you  rt 

Hor.  Most  constantly. 

Ham.  I  would,  I  had  been  there. 

Hor.  It  would  have  much  amaz'd  you. 

Ham.  Very  like, 

Very  like :  Stay'd  it  long  ? 

Hor.  While  one  with  moderate  haste  might  tell  a  hundred. 

Ham.  His  beard  was  grizzl'd  ?  no  ? 

Hor.  It  was,  as  I  have  seen  it  in  his  life, 
A  sable  silver'd. 

Ham.  I  will  watch  to-night ; 

Perchance,  'twill  walk  again. 

Hor.  I  warrant,  it  will. 

Ham.  If  it  assume  my  noble  father's  person, 
111  speak  to  it,  though  hell  itself  should  gape, 

2* 


10  SHAKSPEAUIAN    READEB. 

And  bid  me  hold  my  peace.     I  pray  you  all, 
If  you  have  hitherto  conceal'd  this  sight, 
Let  it  be  tenable  in  your  silence  still ; 
And  whatsoever  else  shall  hap  to-night, 
Give  it  an  understanding,  but  no  tongue ; 
I  will  requite  your  loves  :  So,  fare  you  well : 
Upon  the  platform,  'twixt  eleven  and  twelve, 
I'll  visit  you. 

All.    *  Our  duty  to  your  honor. 

Ham.  Your  loves,  as  mine  to  you  :  Farewell. 

[Exeunt  HORATIO,  MARCELLUS,  and  BERNARDO 
My  father's  spirit  in  arms !  all  is  not  well ; 
I  doubt  some  foul  play :  'would,  the  night  were  come  ! 
Till  then  sit  still,  my  soul :  Foul  deeds  will  rise, 
Though  all  the  earth  overwhelms  them,  to  men's  eyes. 

[Exii. 

SCENE  III. — A  Room  in  Polonius'  House. 
Enter  LAERTES  and  OPHELIA. 

Laer.  My  necessaries  are  embark'd  ;  farewell : 
And,  sister,  as  the  winds  give  benefit, 
Pray  let  me  hear  from  you. 

Qph.  Do  you  doubt  that  ? 

Laer.  For  Hamlet,  and  the  trifling  of  his  favor, 
Hold  it  a  fashion,  and  a  toy  in  blood  ; 
For  he  himself  is  subject  to  his  birth : 
He  may  not,  as  unvalued  persons  do, 
Carve  Tor  himself: 

Then  weigh  what  loss  your  honor  may  sustain, 
If  with  too  credent  ear  you  list  his  songs. 
Fear  it,  Ophelia,  fear  it,  my  dear  sister ; 
And  keep  you  in  the  rear  of  your  affection, 
Out  of  the  shot  and  danger  of  desire ; 
The  chariest  maid  is  prodigal  enough, 
If  she  unmask  her  beauty  to  the  moon. 

Oph.  I  shall  the  effect  of  this  good  lesson  keep, 
As  watchman  to  my  heart :  But,  good  my  brother, 
Do  not,  as  some  ungracious  pastors  do, 
Show  me  the  steep  and  thorny  way  to  heaven ; 
Whilst,  like  a  puff'd  and  reckless  libertine, 
Himself  the  primrose  path  of  dalliance  treads, 
And  recks  not  his  own  rede. 

Laer.  O  fear  me  not. 

I  stay  too  long ; — But  here  my  father  comes. 

Enter  POLONIUS. 

Pol.  Yet  here,  Laertes !  aboard,  aboard,  for  shame; 
The  wind  sits  In  the  shoulder  of  your  sail, 


HAMLET.  11 

^nd  you  are  staid  for :  There,  my  blessing  with  you ! 

[Laying  his  hand  on  LAEHTES'  head 
And  these  few  precepts  in  thy  memory 
Look  thou  character.     Give  thy  thoughts  no  tongue, 
Nor  any  unproportion'd  thought  his  act. 
Be  thou  familiar,  but  by  no  means  vulgar. 
The  friends  thou  hast,  and  their  adoption  tried, 
Grapple  them  to  thy  soul  with  hooks  of  steel ; 
But  do  not  dull  thy  palm  with  entertainment 
Of  each  new-hatch'd,  unfledg'd  comrade.     Beware 
Of  entrance  to  a  quarrel :  but,  being  in, 
Bear  it,  that  the  opposer  may  beware  of  thee. 
Give  every  man  thine  ear,  but  few  thy  voice  : 
Take  each  man's  censure,  but  reserve  thy  judgment. 
Costly  thy  habit  as  thy  purse  can  buy, 
But  not  express'd  in  fancy :  rich,  not  gaudy : 
For  the  apparel  oft  proclaims  the  man ; 
And  they  in  France,  of  the  best  rank  and  station, 
Are  most  select  and  generous,  chief  in  that. 
Neither  a  borrower,  nor  a  lender  be  : 
For  loan  oft  loses  both  itself  and  friend : 
And  borrowing  dulls  the  edge  of  husbandry. 
This  above  all, — To  thine  ownself  be  true  ; 
And  it  must  follow,  as  the  night  the  day, 
Thou  canst  not  then  be  false  to  any  man. 
Farewell ;  my  blessing  season  this  in  thee  ! 

Laer.  Most  humbly  do  I  take  my  leave,  my  lord. 

Pol.  The  time  invites  you  ;  go,  your  servants  tend. 

Laer.  Farewell,  Ophelia  :  and  remember  well 
What  I  have  said  to  you. 

Oph.  'Tis  in  my  memory  lock'd, 

And  you  yourself  shall  keep  the  key  of  it. 

Laer.  Farewell. 


SCENE  IV.— The  Platform. 
Enter  HAMLET,  HORATIO,  and  MARCELLUS. 

Ham.  The  air  bites  shrewdly ;  it  is  very  cold. 

Hor.  It  is  a  nipping  and  an  eager  air. 

Ham.  What  hour  now  ? 

Hor.  I  think,  it  lacks  of  twelve. 

Mar.  No,  it  is  struck. 

Hor.  Indeed  ?  I  heard  it  not ;  then  it  draws  near  the  season, 
Wherein  the  spirit  held  his  wont  to  walk. 

[A  flourish  of  trumpets,  and  ordnance  shot  off,  within. 
What  does  this  mean,  my  lord  ? 

Ham.  The  king  doth  wake  to-night,  and  takes  his  rouse, 
And,  as  he  drains  his  draughts  of  Rhenish  down, 


12  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

The  kettle-drum  and  crumpet  thus  bray  out 
The  triumph  of  his  pledge. 

Hor  Is  it  a  custom  ? 

Ham.  Ay,  marry,  is't : 
But  to  my  mind, — though  I  am  native  here, 
And  to  the  manner  born, — it  is  a  custom 
More  honor'd  in  the  breach,  than  the  observance. 

Enter  Ghost. 

Hor.  Look,  my  lord,  it  comes  ! 

Ham.  Angels  and  ministers  of  grace  defend  us  )  • 
Be  thou  a  spirit  of  health,  or  goblin  damn'd, 
Bring  with  thee  airs  from  heaven,  or  blasts  from  liell, 
Be  thy  intents  wicked,  or  charitable, 
Thou  com'st  in  such  a  questionable  shape, 
That  I  will  speak  to  thee ;  I'll  call  thee  Hamlet, 
King,  father,  royal  Dane  :  O,  answer  me : 
Let  me  not  burst  in  ignorance  !  but  tell, 
Why  thy  canoniz'd  bones,  hearsed  in  death, 
Have  burst  their  cerements  !  why  the  sepulchre, 
Wherein  we  saw  thee  quietly  in-urn'd, 
Hath  op'd  his  ponderous  and  marble  jaws, 
To  cast  thee  up  again  !  What  may  this  mean, 
That  thou,  dead  corse,  again,  in  complete  steel, 
Revisit'st  thus  the  glimpses  of  the  moon, 
leaking  night  hideous  ;  and  we  fools  of  nature, 
So  horribly  to  shake  our  disposition, 
With  thoughts  beyond  the  reaches  of  our  souls  ? 
Say  why  is  this  ?  wherefore  ?  what  should  we  do  ? 

Hor.  *It  beckons  you  to  go  away  with  it , 
As  if  it  some  impartment  did  desire 
To  you  alone. 

Mar.  Look,  with  what  courteous  action 

It  waves  you  to  a  more  removed  ground  : 
But  do  not  go  with  it. 

Hor.  No,  by  no  means. 

Ham.  It  will  not  speak  ;  then  I  will  follow  it. 

Hor.  Do  not,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Why,  what  should  be  the  fear  ? 

1  do  not  set  my  life  at  a  pin's  fee  ; 
And,  for  my  soul,  what  can  it  do  to  that, 
Being  a  thing  immortal  as  itself? 
[t  waves  me  forth  again  ; — I'll  follow  it. 

Hor.  What,  if  it  tempt  you  toward  the  flood,  my  lord, 
Or  to  the  dreadful  summit  of  the  cliff, 
That  beetles  o'er  his  base  into  the  sea  ? 
And  there  assume  some  other  horrible  form, 
And  draw  you  into  madness  ? 


HAMLET.  1  •> 

Ham.  It  waves  me  still : — 

Go  on,  PL  follow  thee. 

Mar.  You  shall  not  go,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Hold  off  your  hands. 

Hor.  Be  rul'd,  you  shall  not  go. 

Ham.  My  fate  cries  out, 

And  makes  each  petty  artery  in  this  boo!/ 
As  hardy  as  the  Nemean  lion's  njrve. —  [Ghost  beckons. 

Still  am  I  call'd ; — unhand  me,  gentlemen  : — 

[Breaking  from  tliem. 

By  heaven,  I'll  make  a  ghost  of  him  that  lets  me  : — 
I  say,  away  : — Go  on,  I'll  follow  thee. 

[Exeunt  Ghost  and  HAMLEI 

SCENE  V.—A  more  remote  Part  of  the  Platform. 
Re-enter  Ghost  and  HAMLET. 

Ham.  Whither  wilt  thou  lead  me  ?  speak,  I'll  go  no  furthei 

Ghost.  Mark  me. 

Ham.  I  will. 

Ghost.  My  hour  is  almost  come, 

When  I  to  sulphurous  and  tormenting  flames 
Must  render  up  myself. 

Ham.  Alas,  poor  ghost ! 

Ghost.  Pity  me  not,  but  lend  thy  serious  hearing 
To  what  I  shall  unfold. 

Ham.  Speak,  I  am  bound  to' hear. 

Ghost.  So  art  thou  to  revenge,  when  thou  shalt  hear. 

Ham.  What? 

Ghost.  I  am  thy  father's  spirit ; 
Doom'd  for  a  certain  term  to  walk  the  night, 
And,  for  the  day  confin'd  to  fast  in  fires, 
Till  the  foul  crimes,  done  in  my  days  of  nature, 
Are  burnt  and  purg'd  away.     But  that  I  am  forbid 
To  tell  the  secrets  of  my  prison-house, 
I  could  a  tale  unfold,  whose  lightest  word 
Would  harrow  up  thy  soul ;  freeze  thy  young  blood  ; 
Make  thy  two  eyes,  like  stars,  start  from  their  spheres 
Thy  knotted  and  combined  locks  to  part, 
And  each  particular  hair  to  stand  on  end, 
Like  quills  upon  the  fretful  porcupine : 
But  this  eternal  blazon  must  not  be 
To  ears  of  flesh  and  blood  : — List,  list,  O  list  !— 
If  thou  didst  ever  thy  dear  father  love, 

Ham.  O  heaven ! 

Ghost.  Revenge  his  foul  and  most  unnatural  murder 
Ham.  Murder  ? 

Ghost.  Murder  most  foul,  as  in  the  best  it  is  ; 
But  this  most  foul,  strange,  and  unnatural. 


14  SHAKSPEAIUAN    READER. 

Ham.  Haste  me  to  know  it ;  that  I,  with  wings  as  swift 
As  meditation,  or  the  thoughts  of  love, 
May  sweep  to  my  revenge. 

Ghost.  I  find  thee  apt ; 

And  duller  should'st  thou  be  than  the  fat  weed 
That  rots  itself  in  ease  on  Lethe  wharf, 
Would'st  thou  not  stir  in  this.     Now,  Hamlet,  hear : 
>rTis  given  out,  that  sleeping  in  mine  orchard, 
A  serpent  stung  me ;  so  the  whole  ear  of  Denmark 
Is  by  a  forged  process  of  my  death 
Rankly  abus'd :  but  know,  thou  noble  youth, 
The  serpent  that  did  sting  thy  father's  life, 
Now  wears  his  crown. 

Ham.  O,  my  prophetic  soul !  my  uncle  1 

Ghost.  Ay,— 

With  witchcraft  of  his  wit,  with  traitorous  gifts, 
He  won  to  his  shameful  love 
The  will  of  my  most  seeming  virtuous  queen : 
O,  Hamlet,  what  a  falling-off  was  there  ! 
From  me,  whose  love  was  of  that  dignity, 
That  it  went  hand  in  hand  even  with  the  vow 
I  made  to  her  in  marriage ;  and  to  decline 
Upon  a  wretch,  whose  natural  gifts  were  poor 
To  those  of  mine  ! 

But,  soft !  methinks,  I  scent  the  morning  air ; 
Brief  let  me  be  : — Sleeping  within  mine  orchard, 
My  custom  always  of  the  afternoon, 
Upon  my  secure  hour  thy  uncle  stole, 
With  juice  of  cursed  hebenon  in  a  vial, 
And  in  the  porches  of  mine  ears  did  pour 
The  leperous  distilment ;  whose  effect 
Holds  such  an  enmity  with  blood  of  man, 
That,  swift  as  quicksilver,  it  courses  through 
The  natural  gates  and  alleys  of  the  body ; 
And,  with  a  sudden  vigor,  it  doth  posset 
And  curd,  like  eager  droppings  into  milk, 
The  thin  and  wholesome  blood  :  so  did  it  mine  • 
Thus  was  I,  sleeping,  by  a  brother's  hand, 
Of  life,  of  crown,  of  queen,  at  once  dispatch'd : 
Cut  off  even  in  the  blossoms  of  my  sin, 
No  reckoning  made,  but  sent  to  my  account 
With  all  my  imperfections  on  my  head. 

Ham.  O,  horrible !  O,  horrible  !  most  horrible 

Ghost.  If  thou  hast  nature  in  thee,  bear  it  not 
But,  howsoever  thou  pursu'st  this  act, 
Taint  not  thy  mind,  nor  let  thy  soul  contrive 
Against  thy  mother  aught ;  leave  her  to  heaven, 
And  to  those  thorns  that  in  her  bosom  lodge, 
To  goad  and  sting  her.     Fare  thee  well  at  once 


HAMLET.  15 

The  glow-worm  shows  the  i;.atin  to  be  near, 

And  'gins  to  pale  his  ineffectual  fire  : 

Adieu,  adieu,  adieu  !  remember  me.  \Exit. 

Ham.  Hold,  hold,  my  heart : 
And  you,  my  sinews,  grow  not  instant  old, 
But  bear  me  stiffly  up  ! — Remember  thee  ? 
Ay,  thou  poor  ghost,  while  memory  holds  a  seat 
[n  this  distracted  globe.     Remember  thee  ? 
Yea,  from  the  table  of  my  memory 
I'll  wipe  away  all  trivial  fond  records, 
All  saws  of  books,  all  forms,  all  pressures  past 
That  youth  and  observation  copied  there  ; 
And  thy  commandment  all  alone  shall  live 
Within  the  book  and  volume  of  my  brain, 
Unmix'd  with  baser  matter :  yes,  by  heaven. 
I  have  sworn't.  • 

Hor.  [  Within.]  My  lord,  my  lord, 

Mar.  [  Within.]  Lord  Hamlet, 

Hor.  [  Within.]  Heaven  secure  him  ! 

Ham.  fcobeit 

Mar.  [  Within.]  Illo,  ho,  ho,  my  lord  ! 

Ham.  Hillo,  ho,  ho,  boy  !  come,  bird,  come. 

Enter  HORATIO  and  MARCELLUS. 

Mar.  How  is't,  my  noble  lord  ? 

Hor.  What  news,  my  lord  ? 

%  Ham.  O,  wonderful ! 
*  Hor.  Good  my  lord,  tell  it. 

Ham.  No ; 

You  will  reveal  it. 

Hor.  Not  I,  my  lord,  by  heaven. 

Mar.  Nor  I,  my  lord. 

Ham.  How  say  you  then ;  would  heart  of  man  once  think  it  F— 
But  you'll  be  secret, 

Hor.  Mar.  Ay,  by  heaven,  my  lord. 

Ham.  There's  ne'er  a  villain,  dwelling  in  all  Denmark, 
But  he's  an  arrant  knave.      V^C^^/t/v^ 

Hor.  There  needs  no  ghost,  my"  lord,  come  from  the  grave, 
To  tell  us  this. 

Hum.  Why,  right ;  you  are  in  the  right : 

And  so,  without  more  circumstance  at  all, 
[  hold  it  fit  that  we  shake  hands,  and  part : 
You,  as  your  business,  and  desire,  shall  point  you ; — 
For  every  man  hath  business,  and  desire, 
Such  as  it  is, — and  for  my  own  poor  part, 
Look  you,  I  will  go  pray. 

Hor.  These  are  but  wild  and  whirling  words,  my  lord. 

Ham.  I  am  sorry  they  offend  you,  heartily ;  yes, 
'Faith,  heartily. 


10  SHAKSrEAIilAN    READER. 

ffor.  There's  no  offence,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Yes,  by  St.  Patrick,  but  there  is,  Horatio, 
And  much  offence  too.     Touching  this  vision  here< — 
It  is  an  honest  ghost,  that  let  me  tell  you ; 
For  your  desire  to  know  what  is  between  us, 
O'er-master  it  as  you  may.     And  now,  good  friends, 
As  you  are  friends,  scholars,  and  soldiers, 
Give  me  one  poor  request. 

Hor.  What  is't,  my  lord  ? 

We  will. 

Ham.  Never  make  known  what  you  have  seen  to-night. 

Hor.  Mar.  My  lord,  we  will  not. 

Ham.  Nay,  but  swear't 

Hor.  Propose  the  oath,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Never  to  speak  of  this  that  you  have  seen, 
Swear  by  my  sword. 

Ghost.  [Beneath.]  Swear. 

Hor.  O  day  and  night,  but  this  is  wondrous  strange ' 

Ham.  And  therefore  as  a  stranger  give  it  welcome. 
There  are  more  things  in  heaven  and  earth,  Horatio, 
Than  are  dreamt  of  in  your  philosophy. 

But  come ; 

Here,  as  before,  never,  so  help  you  mercy ! 

How  strange  or  odd  soe'er  I  bear  myself, 

As  I,  perchance,  hereafter,  shall  think  meet 

To  put  an  antic  disposition  on.— 

That  you,  at  such  times  seeing  me,  never  shall    • 

With  arms  encumber'd  thus,  01  this  head-shake, 

Or  by  pronouncing  of  some  doubtful  phrase, 

As,  Well,  well,  we  know ; — or,  We  could,  and  if  we  "vm3.d  ; 

If  we  list  to  speak  ; — or,  There  be,  -an  if  they  miglti  ;— 

Or  such  ambiguous  giving  out,  to  note 

That  you  know  aught  of  me  : — This  do  you  swear, 

So  grace  and  mercy  at  your  most  need  help  you ! 

Ghost.  [Beneath.]  Swear. 

Ham.  Rest,  rest,  perturbed  spirit !     So,  gentlemen, 
With  all  my  love  I  do  commend  me  to  you : 
And  what  so  poor  a  man  as  Hamlet  is 
May  do,  to  express  his  love  and  friending  to  you, 
God  willing,  shall  not  lack.     Let  us  go  in  together  j 
And  still  your  fingers  on  your  lips,  I  pray. 
The  time  is  out  of  joint ; — O  cursed  spite  ! 
That  ever  I  was  born  to  set  it  right ! 
Nay,  come,  let's  go  together. 


HAMLET.  17 

ACT    II. 

SCENE  I. 

Hamlet  ha  low  put  on  his  counterfeit  madness.  He  visits  Ophelia  in  fnis  "  anlio 
guise,"  and  the  affiighted  maiden  narrates  to  her  father  the  circumstances  attending 
nia  visit. 

OPHELIA. — POLONITJS. 

Pol.  How  now,  Ophelia  ?  what's  the  matter  ? 

Oph.  O,  my  lord,  my  lord,  I  have  been  so  affrighted ! 
1  Pol.  With  what,  in  the  name  of  heaven. 

Oph.  My  lord,  as  I  was  sewing  in  my  closet, 
Lord  Hamlet, — with  his  doublet  all  unbrac'd ; 
Pale  as  his  shirt ;  his  knees  knocking  each  other ; 
He  comes  before  me. 

Pol  Mad  for  thy  love  ? 

Oph.  My  lord,  I  do  not  know  ; 

But,  truly,  I  do  fear  it. 

Pol  What  said  he  ? 

Oph.  He  took  me  by  the  wrist,  and  held  me  hard ; 
Then  goes  he  to  the  length  of  all  his  arm  ; 
And,  with  his  other  hand  thus  o'er  his  brow, 
He  falls  to  such  perusal  of  my  face, 
As  he  would  draw  it.     Long  stay'd  he  so ; 
At  last, — A  little  shaking  of  mine  arm, 
And  thrice  his  head  thus  waving  up  and  down, — 
He  rais'd  a  sigh  so  piteous  and  profound, 
As  it  did  seem  to  shatter  all  his  bulk, 
And  end  his  being  :  That  done,  he  lets  me  go  : 
And,  with  his  head  over  his  shoulder  turn'd, 
He  seem'd  to  find  his  way  without  his  eyes  ; 
For  out  o'doors  he  went  without  their  helps, 
And,  to  the  last,  bended  their  light  on  me. 

Pol  Come,  go  with  me ;  I  will  go  seek  the  king. 
This  is  the  very  ecstasy  of  love  ; 
What,  have  you  given  him  any  hard  words  of  late  ? 

Oph.  No,  my  good  lord ;  but,  as  you  did  command, 
I  did  repel  his  letters,  and  denied 
His  access  to  me. 

Pol  That  hath  made  him  mad. 

Como,  go  we  to  the  king : 

YThis  must  be  known  ;  which,  being  kept  close,  might  move 
More  grief  to  hide,  than  hate  to  utter  love.  [  Exeunt. 


= 


SCENE  II.— A  Room  in  the  Castle. 

Enter  KING,  QUEEN,  ROSENCRANTZ,  GUILDENSTERN,  and  Attendants, 
King.  Welcome,  dear  Rosencrantz,  and  Guildenstern ! 
oroove r  that  we  much  did  long  to  see  you, 


18  SIIAKSI'EAKIAN    KEAiJER. 

The  need,  we  have  to  use  you,  did  provoke  - 

Oar  hasty  send'ng.     Something  have  you  heard 

Of  Hamlet's  transformation ;  so  I  call  it, 

S.ince  not  the  exterior  nor  the  inward  man 

Resembles  that  it  was :   What  it  should  be, 

More  than  his  father's  death,  that  thus  hath  put  him 

So  much  from  the  understanding  of  himself, 

I  cannot  dream  of:  I  entreat  you  both, 

That  you  vouchsafe  your  rest  here  in  our  court 

Some  little  time :  so  by  your  companies 

To  draw  him  on  to  pleasures ;  and  to  gather, 

Whether  aught,  to  us  unknown,  afflicts  him  thus, 

That,  open'd,  lies  within  our  remedy. 

Queen.  Good  gentlemen,  he  hath  much  talk'd  of  you; 
And,  sure  I  am,  two  men  there  are  not  living, 
To  whom  he  more  adheres.     If  it  will  please  you 
So  to  expend  your  time  with  us  a  while, 
Your  visitation  shall  receive  such  thanks 
As  fits  a  king's  remembrance. 

Ros.  Both  your  majesties 

Might,  by  the  sovereign  power  you  have  of  us, 
Put  your  dread  pleasures  more  into  command 
Than  to  entreaty. 

Guil.  But  we  both  obey  ; 

And  here  give  up  ourselves,  in  the  full  bent, 
To  lay  our  service  freely  at  your  feet, 
To  be  commanded. 

King.  Thanks,  Rosencrantz.  and  gentle  Guildenstern. 

Queen.  And  I  beseech  you  instantly  to  visit 
My  too  much  changed  son. — Go,  some  of  you, 
And  bring  these  gentlemen  where  Hamlet  is. 

[Exeunt  ROSENCEZSTZ,  GUILDENSTERN,  and  some  Attendants 

Enter  POLONIUS. 

Pol.  I  now  do  think,  (or  else  this  brain  of  mine 
Hunts  not  the  trail  of  policy  so  sure 
As  it  hath  us'd  to  do,)  that  I  have  found 
The  very  cause  of  Hamlet's  lunacy. 

King.  O,  speak  of  that ;  that  do  I  long  to  hear. 

Pol.  My  liege,  and  madam,  to  expostulate 
What  majesty  should  be,  what  duty  is, 
Why  day  is  day,  night,  night,  and  time  is  time, 
Were  nothing  but  to  waste  night,  day,  and  time. 
Therefore, — since  brevity  is  the  soul  of  wit, 
And  tediousness  the  hmbs  and  outward  flourishes,—- 
[  will  be  brief:  Your  noble  son  is  mad  : 
Mad  call  t  it :  for,  to  define  true  madness, 
What  is't,  but  to  be  nothing  else  but  mad : 
But  let  that  go. 


HAMLET.  19 

Queen.  More  matter,  with  less  art. 

Pol.  Madam,  I  swear,  I  use  m  art  at  all. 
That  he  is  mad,  'tis  true,  'tis  pity  ; 
And  pity  tis,  'tis  true :  a  foolish  figure  ; 
But  farewell  it,  fur  I  will  use  no  art. 
Mad  let  us  grant  him  then :  and  now  remains, 
That  we  find  out  the  cause  of  this  effect ; 
Or,  rather  say,  the  cause  of  this  defect ; 
For  this  effect,  defective,  comes  by  cause  ; 
Thus  it  remains,  and  the  remainder  thus. 
Perpend. 

I  have  a  daughter  ;  have,  while  she  is  mine  ; 
Who,  in  her  duty  and  obedience,  mark, 
Hath  given  me  this :  Now  gather,  and  surmise. 
— rfo  the  celestial,  and  my  soul's  idol,  the  most  beautified  Ophelia,-—— 
That's  an  ill  phrase,  a  vile  phrase ;  beautified  is  a  vile  phrase  j  but 
you  shall  hear. — Thus  :— 

In  her  excellent  white  bosom,  these,  &c. — 

Queen.  Came  this  from  Hamlet  to  her  ? 

Pol.  Good  madam,  stay  awhile ;  I  will  be  faithful.—          iRcads 
Doubt  thou,  the  stars  are  fire; 

Doubt,  that  the  sun  doth  move  ; 
Doubt  truth  to  be  a  liar ; 
But  never  doubt,  I  love. 

O  dear  Ophelia,  /  am  ill  at  these  numbers ;  I  have  not  art  to 
reckon  my  groans :  but  that  I  love  thee  best,  O  most  best,  believe  *l. 
Adieu. 

Thine  evermore,  most  dear  lady,  whilst 

this  machine  is  to  him,  Hamlet 
This,  in  obedience,  hath  my  daughter  shown  me : 
\nd  more  above,  hath  his  solicitings, 
As  they  fell  out  by  time,  by  means,  and  place, 
All  given  to  mine  ear. 

King.  But  how  hath  she 

Receiv'd  his  love  ? 

Pol.  What  do  you  think  of  me  ? 

King.  As  of  a  man  faithful  and  honorable. 

Pol.  I  would  fain  prove  so.     But  what  might  you  think, 
When  I  had  seen  this  hot  love  on  the  wing, 
(As  I  perceiv'd  it,  I  must  tell  you  that, 
Before  my  daughter  told  me,)  what  might  you, 
Or  my  dear  majesty  your  queen  here,  think, 
If  I  hud  play'd  the  desk,  or  table-book ; 
Or  given  my  heart  a  working,  mute  and  dumb, 
Or  look'd  upon  this  love  with  idle  sight  ; 
What  might  you  think  ?  no,  I  went  round  to  work, 
And  my  young  mistress  thus  did  I  bespeak ; 
Lord  Hamlet  is  a  prince  out  of  thy  sphere; 
This  must  not  bs :  and  then  I  precepts  gave  her, 


ZU  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

That  she  should  lock  herself  from  his  resort, 
Admit  no  messengers,  receive  no  tokens. 
Which  done,  she  took  the  fruits  of  my  advice, 
And  he,  repulsed,  (a  short  tale  to  make,) 
•  Fell  into  a  sadness ;  then  into  a  fast ; 
Thence  to  a  watch ;  thence  into  a  weakness ; 
Thence  to  a  lightness  :  and,  by  this  declension, 
Into  the  madness  wherein  now  he  raves, 
And  all  we  mourn  for. 

King.  Do  you  think,  'tis  this  ? 

Queen.  It  may  be,  very  likely. 

Pol  Hath  there  been  such  a  time,  (I'd  fain  know  that,) 
That  I  have  positively  said,  '  Tis  so, 
When  it  prov'd  otherwise  ? 

King.  Not  that  I  know. 

Pol.  Take  this  from  this,  if  this  be  otherwise : 

[Pointing  to  his  head  and  slwulder. 
If  circumstances  lead  me,  I  will  find 
Where  truth  is  hid,  though  it  were  hid  indeed 
Within  the  centre. 

King.  How  may  we  try  it  further  ? 

Pol  You  know,  sometimes  he  walks  for  hours  together, 
Here  in  the  lobby. 

Queen.  So  he  does,  indeed. 

Pol.  At  such  a  time  I'll  loose  my  daughter  to  him : 
Be  you  and  I  behind  an  arras  then  ; 
Mark  the  encounter  ;  if  he  love  her  not, 
And  be  not  from  his  reason  fallen  thereon, 
Let  me  be  no  assistant  for  a  state, 
But  keep  a  farm,  and  carters. 

King.  We  will  try  it. 

Enter  HAMLET,  reading. 

Queen.  But,  look,  where  sadly  the  poor  wretch  comes  reading. 

Pol.  Away,  I  do  beseech  you,  both  away  ; 
I'll  board  him  presently : — O,  give  me  leave. — 

[Exeunt  KING,  QUEEN,  and  Attendants, 
How  does  my  good  lord  Hamlel  ? 

Ham.  Excellent  well. 

Pol  Do  you  know  me,  my  lord  ? 

Ham.  Excellent  well ;  you  are  a  fishmonger. 

Pol  Not  I,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Then  I  would  you  were  so  honest  a  man. 

Pol  Honest,  my  lord  ? 

Ham.  Ay,  sir ;  to  be  honest,  as  this  world  goes,  is  to  be  one  man 
picked  out  of  ten  thousand. 

Pot.  That's  very  true,  my  lord. 

Ham.  For  if  the  sun  breed  maggots  in  a  dead  dog,  being  a  god, 
kissing  carrion, Have  you  a  daughter  ? 


HAMLET.  21 

Pol.  [Aside.]  Still  harping  on  my  da  tighter . — yet  he  knew  me 
not  at  first ;  he  said  I  was  a  fishmonger  :  He  is  far  gone,  far  gone  : 
and  truly  in  my  youth  I  suffered  much  extremity  for  love :  very 
near  this.  I'll  speak  to  him  again. — What  do  you  read,  my  lord  ? 

Ham.  Words,  words,  words  ! 

Pol.  What  is  the  matter,  my  lord  ? 

Ham.  Between  who  ? 

Pol.  I  mean,  the  matter  that  you  read,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Slanders,  sir :  for  the  satirical  rogue  says  here,  that  old 
men  have  gray  beards ;  that  their  faces  are  wrinkled ;  their  eyes 
purging  thick  amber,  and  plum-tree  gum  ;  and  thai  they  have  a 
plentiful  lack  of  wit,  together  with  most  weak  hams  :  All  of  which, 
sir,  though  I  most  powerfully  and  potently  believe,  yet  I  hold  it  not 
honesty  10  have  it  thus  set-  down ;  for  yourself,  sir,  shall  be  as  old  as 
I  am,  if,  like  a  crab,  you  could  go  backward. 

Pol.  Though  this  be  madness,  yet  there's  method  in  it.  [Aside.'] 
Will  you  walk  out  of  the  air,  my  lord  ? 

Ham.  Into  my  grave? 

Pol.  Indeed,  that  is  out  o'the  air. — How  pregnant  sometimes  his 
replies  are !  a  happiness  that  often  madness  hits  on,  which  reason 
and  sanity  could  not  so  prosperously  be  delivered  of.  I  will  leave 
him,  and  suddenly  contrive  the  means  of  meeting  between  him  and 
my  daughter. — My  honorable  lord,  I  will  most  humbly  take  my 
leave  of  you. 

Ham.  You  cannot,  sir,  take  from  me  any  thing  that  I  will  more 
willingly  part  withal ;  except  my  life,  except  my  life,  except  my  life. 

Pol  Fare  you  well,  my  lord. 

Hajn.  These  tedious  old  fools  ! 

Enter  ROSENCRANTZ  and  GUILDENSTERN. 

Pol.  You  go  to  seek  the  lord  Hamlet ;  there  he  is. 

Ros.  Heaven  save  you,  sir  !  [  To  POLONITJS. 

[Exit  POLONIUS. 

Gull.  My  honor'd  lord  ! — 

Ham.  My  excellent  good  friends !  How  dost  thou,  Guildenstern  ? 
Ah,  Rosencrantz  !  Good  lads,  how  do  ye  both  ?  What  news  ? 

Ros.  None,  my  lord  ;  but  that  the  world's  grown  honest. 

Ham.  Then  is  doomsday  near :  But  your  news  is  not  true.  But 
in  the  beaten  way  of  friendship;  what  make  you  at  Elsinore  ? 

Ros.  To  visit  you,  my  lord  ;  no  other  occasion. 

Ham.  Beggar  that  I  am,  I  am  even  poor  in  thanks ;  but  I  thank 
you.  Were  you  not  sent  for  ?  Is  it  your  own  inclining  ?  Is  it  a 
free  visitation  ?  Come,  come ;  deal  justly  with  me  :  come,  come  ; 
nay,  speak. 

Guil.  What  should  we  say,  my  lord  ? 

Ham.  Any  thing — but  to  the  purpose.  You  were  sent  for  ;  and 
jiere  is  a  kind  of  confession  in  your  looks,  which  your  modesties 
have  not  craft  enough  to  color :  I  know,  the  good  king  and  queen 
have  sent  for  vou. 


22  SIIAKSPEARIAN    HEADER, 

Ros.  To  what  end,  my  lord  ? 

Ham.  That  you  must  teach  me.  But  let  me  conjure  yon,  by  the 
rights  of  our  fellowship,  by  the  consonancy  of  our  youth,  by  tho 
obligation  of  our  ever-preserved  love,  and  by  what  more  dear  a  better 
proposer  could  charge  you  withal,  be  even  and  direct  with  me, 
whether  you  were  sent  for,  or  no  ? 

Ros.  What  say  you?  [To  GUILDENSTERN. 

Ham.  Nay,  then  I  have  an  eye  of  you  ;  [  Aside.] — if  you  love  me, 
hold  not  off. 

Guil.  My  lord,  we  were  sent  for. 

Ham.  I  will  tell  you  why  ;  so  shall  my  anticipation  prevent  your 
discovery,  and  your  secrecy  to  the  king  and  queen  moult  no  feather. 
I  have  of  late,  (but,  wherefore,  I  know  not,)  lost  all  my  mirth,  for- 
gone all  custom  of  exercises  :  and,  indeed,  it  goes  so  heavily  with  my 
disposition,  that  this  goodly  frame,  the  earth,  seems  to  me  a  steril. 
promontory  ;  this  most  excellent  canopy,  the  air,  look  you,  this  brave 
o'erhanging  firmament,  this  majestical  roof  fretted  with  golden  fire, 
why,  it 'appears  no  other  thing  to  me,  than  a  foul  and  pestilent  con- 
gregation of  vapors.  What  a  piece  of  work  is  a  man  !  How  noble 
in  reason !  how  infinite  in  faculties !  in  form,  and  moving,  how 
express  and  admirable  !  in  action,  how  like  an  angel !  in  apprehen- 
sion, how  like  a  god!  the  beauty  of  the  world!  the  paragon  of 
animals  !  And  yet,  to  me,  what  is  this  quintessence  of  dust  ?  man 
delights  not  me,  nor  woman  neither  ;  though,  by  your  smiling,  you 
seem  to  say  so. 

Ros.  My  lord,  there  is  no  such  stuff  in  my  thoughts. 

Ham.  Why  did  you  laugh  then,  when  I  said,  Man  delights  not 
me? 

Ros.  To  think,  my  lord,  if  you  delight  not  in  man,  what  lenten 
entertainment  the  players  shall  receive  for  you :  we  met  them  on 
the  way  ;  and  hither  are  they  coming,  to  offer  you  service. 

Ham.  He  that  plays  the  king  shall  be  welcome  ;  his  majesty  shall 
have  tribute  of  me :  the  adventurous  knight  shall  use  his  foil  and 
target :  the  lover  shall  not  sigh  gratis ;  the  humorous  man  shall  end 
his  part  in  peace :  the  clown  shall  make  those  laugh,  whose  lungs 
are  tickled  o'  the  sere  ;  and  the  lady  shall  say  her  mind  freely,  or  the 
blank  verse  shall  halt  for  't. — What  players  are  they  ? 

Ros.  Even  those  you  were  wont  to  take  such  delight  in,  the  tra- 
gedians of  the  city. 

Ham.  How  chances  it,  they  travel  ?  their  residence,  both  in  rcpu« 
ation  and  profit,  was  better  both  ways. 

Ros.  I  think,  their  inhibition  comes  by  the  means  of  the  late 
innovation. 

Ham.  Do  they  hold  the  same  estimation  they  did  when  I  was  in 
the  city  ?  Are  they  so  followed  ? 

Ros.  No,  indeed,  they  are  not. 

Earn.  It  is  not  very  strange :  for  my  uncle  is  king  of  Denmark ; 
and  those,  that  would  make  mouths  at  him  while  my  father  lived, 
2five  twenty,  forty,  fifty,  an  hundred  ducats  a-piece,  for  his  picture  in 


HAMLET.  23 

little.     There  is  something  in  this  more  than  natural,  if  philosophy 
could  find  it  out.  [Flourish  of  trumpets  within. 

Guil.  There  are  the  players. 

Ham.  Gentlemen,  you  are  welcome  to  Elsinore.  Your  hands.  You 
are  welcome :  but  my  uncle-father,  and  aunt-mother,  are  deceived. 

Guil.  In  what,  my  dear  lord  ? 

Ham.  I  am  but  mad  north-northwest :  when  the  wind  is  southerly 
I  know  a  hawk  from  a  handsaw. 

Enter  POLONIUS. 

Pol.  Well  be  with  you,  gentlemen  ! 

Ham.  Hark  you,  Guildenstern, — and  you  too ; — at  each  ear  a  hearer ; 
that  great  baby,  you  see  there,  is  not  yet  out  of  his  swaddling  clothes. 

Ros.  Happily,  he's  the  second  time  come  to  them  ;  for,  they  say, 
an  old  man  is  twice  a  child. 

Ham.  I  will  prophesy,  he  comes  to  tell  me  of  the  players  ;  mark 
L. — You  say  right,  sir :  o'  Monday  morning  ;  'twas  then,  indeed. 

Pol.  My  lord,  I  have  news  to  tell  you. 

Ham.  My  lord,  I  have  news  to  tell  you.  When  Roscius  was  an 
actor  in  Rome, 

Pol.  The  actors  are  come  hither,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Buz,  buz  ! 

Pol.  Upon  my  honor, 

Ham.  Then  came  each  actor  on  his  ass, 

Pol.  The  best  actors  in  the  world,  either  for  tragedy,  comedy, 
history,  pastoral,  pastoral-comical,  historical-pastoral,  tragical-histori- 
cal, tragical-comical,  historical-pastoral,  scene  individible,  or  poem 
unlimited  :  Seneca  cannot  be  too  heavy,  nor  Plautus  too  light.  For 
the  law  of  writ  and  the  liberty,  these  are  the  only  men. 

Ham.  O  Jephthah,  judge  of  Israel, — what  a  treasure  hadst  thou ! 

Pol.  What  a  treasure  had  he,  my  lord  ? 

Ham.  Why — One  fair  daughter,  and  no  more, 
The  which  he  loved  passing  well. 

Pol.  Still  on  my  daughter.  [Aside. 

Ham.  Am  not  I  i'  the  right,  old  Jephthah  ? 

Pol.  If  you  call  me  Jephthah,  my  lord,  I  have  a  daughter,  that  I 
love  passing  well. 

Ham.  Nay,  that  follows  not. 

Pol.  What  follows  then,  my  lord  ? 

Ham.  Why,  As  by  lot,  God  wot,  and  then,  you  know,  It  came  to 
pass,  As  most  like  it  was, — The  first  row  of  the  pious  chanson  will 
show  you  more  ;  for  look,  my  abridgment  comes. 

The  PI  jyers  enter,  and  at  Hamlet's  request,  the  first  player  recites  a  spe<«".h. 

Ham.  Tis  well ;  I'll  have  tnee  speak  out  the  rest  of  this  soon. — 
Good  my  lord,  will  you  see  the  players  well  bestowed  ?  Do  you 
hear,  let  them  be  well  used ;  for  they  are  the  abstract,  ard  brief 
chronicles,  of  the  time :  Alter  your  death  you  were  better  Have  a 
bad  epitaph,  than  their  ill  re  >ort  while  you  llVe. 

PoL  My  lord,  I  will  use  hem  according  to  their  desert. 


24  SHAKSrEARIAN    READER. 

Ham.  Much  better:  Use  every  man  after  his  desert,  and  who 
shall  'scape  whipping  !  Use  them  after  your  own  honor  and  dig- 
nity :  The  less  they  deserve  the  more  merit  is  in  your  bounty.  Take 
them  in. 

Pol.  Come,  sirs. 

[Exit  POLONIUS  with  some  of  the  Players. 

Ham.  Follow  him,  friends :  we'll  hear  a  play  to-morrow. — Dost 
thou  hear  me,  old  friend  ;  can  you  play  the  murder  of  Gonzago  ? 

1st  Play.  Ay,  my  lord. 

Ham.  We'll  have  it  to-morrow  night.  You  could,  for  a  need, 
study  a  speech  of  some  dozen  or  sixteen  lines,  which  I  would  set 
down,  and  insert  in't  ?  could  you  not  ? 

1st  Play.  Ay,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Very  well, — follow  that  lord  ;  and  look  you  mock  him  not. 
[Exit  Player.]  My  good  friends,  [To  Ros.  and  Gun,.]  I'll  leave 
you  till  night :  you  are  welcome  to  Elsinore. 

Ros.  Good  my  lord. 

[Exeunt  ROSENCRANTZ  and  GUILDENSTER& 

Ham.  Ay,  so,  heaven  be  wi'  you  : — Now  I  am  alone. 
O,  what  a  rogue  and  peasant  s-lave  am  I ! 
Is  it  not  monstrous,  that  this  player  here, 
But  in  a  fiction,  in  a  dream  of  passion, 
Could  force  his  soul  so  to  his  own  conceit, 
That  from  her  working  all  his  visage  wann'd  ; 
Tears  in  his  eyes,  distraction  in  his  aspect, 
A  broken  voice,  and  his  whole  function  suiting 
With  forms  to  his  conceit  ?  and  all  for  nothing ! 
For  Hecuba ! 

What's  Hecuba  to  him,  or  he  to  Hecuba, 
That  he  should  weep  for  her  ?     What  would  he  do, 
Had  he  the  motive  and  the  cue  for  passion, 
That  I  have  ?    He  would  drown  the  stage  with  tears, 
And  cleave  the  general  ear,  with  horrid  speech ; 
Make  mad  the  guilty,  and  appal  the  free, 
Confound  the  ignorant ;  and  amaze,  indeed, 
The  very  faculties  of  eyes  and  ears. 
Yet  I,    ' 

A  dull  and  muddy-mettled  rascal,  peak, 
Like  John  a-dreams,  unpregnant  of  my  cause, 
And  can  say  nothing  ;  no,  not  for  a  king, 
Upon  whose  property,  and  most  dear  life, 
A  damn'd  defeat  was  made.     Am  I  a  coward  ? 
Who  calls  me  villain  ?  breaks  my  pate  across  ? 
Plucks  off  my  beard,  and  blows  it  in  my  face  ? 
Tweaks  me  by  the  nose  ?  gives  me  the  lie  i'  the  throat, 
As  deep  as  to  the  lungs  ?     Who  does  me  this  ? 
Ha! 

Why,  I  should  take  it :  for  it  cannot  be, 
But  I  am  pigeon-livered  and  lack  gall, 


HAMLET.  25 

To  make  oppression  bitter ;  or,  ere  this, 

I  should  have  fatted  all  the  region  kites 

With  this  slave's  offal : 

Why,  what  an  ass  am  I  ?     This  is  most  bravo  ; 

Fye  upon't !  foh !     About  my  brains  !     Humph !    1  nave  heard. 

That  guilty  creatures  sitting  at  a  play, 

Have  by  the  very  cunning  of  the  scene 

Been  struck  so  to  the  soul,  that  presently 

They  have  proclaim'd  their  malefactions ; 

For  murder,  though  it  have  no  tongue,  will  speak 

With  most  miraculous  organ.    I'll  have  these  players 

Play  something  like  the  murder  of  my  father, 

Before  mine  uncle  :  I'll  observe  his  looks  ; 

I'Jl  tent  him  to  the  quick ;  if  he  do  blench, 

I  know  my  course.     The  spirit  that  I  have  seen, 

May  be  a  devil :  and  the  devil  hath  power 

To  assume  a  pleasing  shape  ;  yea,  and,  perhaps, 

Out  of  my  weakness,  and  my  melancholy, 

(As  he  is  very  potent  with  such  spirits,) 

Abuses  me  to  damn  me :  I'll  have  grounds 

More  relative  than  this  :  the  play's  the  thing, 

Wherein  I'll  catch  the  conscience  of  the  king.  [Exit. 


ACT   III. 

SCENE  I.— A  Room  in  the  Caslle. 
Enter  KING,  QUEEN,  POLONIUS,  OPHELIA,  ResENCRANTZ,  and 

GUILDENSTERN. 

King.  And  can  you,  by  no  drift  of  conference 
Get  from  him,  why  he  puts  on  this  confusion ; 
Grating  so  harshly  all  his  days  of  quiet 
WiJ;h  turbulent  and  dangerous  lunacy  ? 

Ros.  He  does  confess,  he  feels  himself  distracted  ; 
But  from  what  cause  he  will  by  no  means  speak. 

Guil.  Nor  do  we  find  him  forward  to  be  sounded ; 
But,  with  a  crafty  madness  keeps  aloof, 
When  we  would  bring  him  on  to  some  confession 
Of  his  true  state. 

Queen.  Did  he  receive  you  well  ? 

Ros.  Most  like  a  gentleman. 

Guil.  But  with  much  forcing  of  his  disposition. 

Ros.  Niggard  of  question  ;  but,  of  our  demands, 
Most  free  in  his  reply. 

Queen.  Did  you  assay  him 

To  any  pastime  ? 

' 


20  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Ros.  Madam,  it  so  fell  out,  that  certain  players 
We  o'er-raught  on  the  way  :-of  these  we  told  him ; 
And  there  did  seem  in  him  a  kind  of  joy 
To  hear  of  it :  They  are  about  the  court  • 
And,  as  I  think,  they  have  already  order 
This  night  to  play  before  him. 

Pol.  'Tis  most  true : 

And  he  beseech'd  me  to  entreat  your  majesties, 
To  hear  and  see  the  matter. 

King.  With  all  my  heart ;  and  it  doth  much  content  me 
>To  hear  him  so  inclin'd. 
Good  gentlemen,  give  him  a  further  edge, 
And  drive  his  purpose  on  to  these  delights. 

Ros.  We  shall,  my  lord. 

[Exeunt  ROSENCRANTZ 

King.  Sweet  Gertrude,  leave  us  too  : 

For  we  have  closely  sent  for  Hamlet  hither ; 
That  he,  as  'twere  by  accident,  may  here 
Affront  Ophelia : 

Her  father,  and  myself  (lawful  espials,) 
Will  so  bestow  ourselves,  that,  seeing,  unseen, 
We  may  of  their  encounter  frankly  judge  : 
And  gather  by  him,  as  he  is  behav'd, 
If 't  be  the  affliction  of  his  love  or  no, 
That  thus  he  suffers  for. 

Queen.  I  shall  obey  you  : 

And,  for  your  part,  Ophelia,  I  do  wish, 
That  your  good  beauties  be  the  happy  cause 
Of  Hamlet's  wildness  ;  so  shall  I  hope  your  virtues 
Will  bring  him  to  his  wonted  way  again, 
To  both  your  honors. 

Oph.  Madam,  I  wish  it  may.  [Exit  QUEEN 

Pol.  Ophelia,  walk  you  here  : — Gracious,  so  please  you, 
We  will  bestow  ourselves  : — Read  on  this  book ;          [To  OPHELIA. 
That  show  of  such  an  exercise  may  color 
Your  loneliness. — We  are  oft  to  blame  in  this, — 
'Tis  too  much  prov'd,  that,  with  devotion's  visage, 
And  pious  action,  we  do  sugar  o'er 
The  devil  himself. 

King.  O,  'tis  too  true  !  how  smart 

A  lash  that  speech  doth  give  rny  conscience  ! 

Pol.  I  hear  him  coming ;  let's  withdraw,  my  lord. 

[Exeunt  KING  and  P.: 

Enter  HAMLET. 

Ham.  To  be,  or  not  to  be,  that  is  the  question  : — 
Whether  'tis  nobler  in  the  mind,  to  suffer 
The  slings  and  arrows  of  outrageous  fortune  ; 


HAMLET. 

Or  to  take  arms  against  a  sea  of  troubles, 

And,  by  opposing,  end  them  ? — To  die, — to  sleep,— 

No  more  ; — and,  by  a  sleep,  to  say  we  end 

The  heartache,  and  the  thousand  natural  shocks 

That  flesh  is  heir  to, — 'tis  a  consummation 

Devoutly  to  be  wish'd.     To  die ;— to  sleep  ; — 

To  sleep  !  perchance  to  dream ; — ay,  there's  the  rub 

For  in  that  sleep  of  death  what  dreams  may  come, 

When  we  have  shuffled  off  this  mortal  coil, 

Must  give  us  pause  :  there's  the  respect, 

That  makes  calamity  of  so  long  life  : 

For  who  would  bear  the  whips  and  scorns  of  time, 

The  oppressor's  wrong,  the  proud  man's  contumely 

The  pangs  of  despis'd  love,  the  law's  delay, 

The  insolence  of  office,  and  the  spurns 

That  patient  merit  of  the  unworthy  takes, 

When  he  himself  might  his  quietus  make 

With  a  bare  bodkin  ?  who  would  fardels  bear, 

To  groan  and  sweat  under  a  weary  life  ; 

But  that  the  dread  of  something  after  death, — 

The  undiscover'd  country,  from  whose  bourn 

No  traveller  returns, — puzzles  the  will ; 

And  makes  us  rather  bear  those  ills  we  have 

Than  fly  to  others  that  we  know  not  of? 

Thus  conscience  does  make  cowards  of  us  all  j 

And  thus  the  native  hue  of  resolution 

Is  sicklied  o'er  with  the  pale  cast  of  thought ; 

And  enterprises  of  great  pith  and  moment, 

With  this  regard,  their  currents  turn  awry, 

And  lose  the  name  of  action. — Soft  you,  now  ! 

The  fair  Ophelia  ; — Nymph,  in  thy  orisons 

Be  all  my  sins  remember'd. 

Oph.  Good  my  lord, 

How  does  your  honor  for  this  many  a  day  ? 

Ham.  I  "humbly  thank  you  ;  well. 

Oph.  My  lord,  I  have  remembrances  of  yours 
That  I  have  longed  long  to  re-deliver ; 
I  pray  you,  now  receive  them. 

Ham.  No,  not  I ; 

I  never  gave  you  aught. 

Oph.  My  honor'd  lord,  you  know  right  well,  you  did ; 
And,  with  them,  words  of  so  sweet  breath  compos'd 
As  made  the  things  more  rich :  their  perfume  lost. 
Take  these  again  ;  for  to  the  noble  mind, 
Rich  gifts  wax  poor,  when  givers  prove  unkind. 
There,  my  lord. 

Hamlet  falls  into  a  wild  extravagance  of  speech,  and  then  exits 


28  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Oph.  O,  what  a  noble  mind  is  here  o'erthrown ! 
The  courtier'?,  soldier's,  scholar's,  eye,  tongue,  sword  • 
The  expectancy  and  rose  of  the  fair  state, 
The  glass  of  fashion,  and  the  mould  of  form, 
T'le  observ  d  of  all  observers  !  quite,  quite  down .' 
And  I,  of  ladies  most  deject  and  wretched, 
That  suck'd  the  honey  of  his  music  vows, 
Now  see  that  noble  and  most  sovereign  reason. 
Line  sweet  bells  jangled,  out  of  tune  and  harsh  ; 
That  unmatch'd  form  and  feature  of  blown  youth, 
Blasted  with  ecstasy  :  O,  woe  is  me  ! 
To  have  seen  what  I  have  seen,  see  whaf  I  sec 

Re-enter  KING  and  POLONIUS. 

King.  Love  !  his  affections  do  not  that  way  tend ; 
Nor  what  he  spake,  though  it  lack'd  form  a  little, 
Was  not  like  madness.     There's  something  in  his  soul, 
O'er  which  his  melancholy  sits  on  brood  : 
And,  I  do  doubt,  the  hatch,  and  the  disclose, 
Will  be  some  danger :  Which  for  to  prevent, 
I  have,  in  quick  determination, 
Thus  set  it  down ;  He  shall  with  speed  to  England 
For  the  demand  of  our  neglected  tribute  : 
Haply,  the  seas,  and  countries  different, 
With  variable  objects,  shall  expel 
This  something-settled  matter  in  his  heart ; 
Whereon  his  brains  still  beating,  puts  him  thus 
From  fashion  of  himself.     What  think  you  on't  1 

Pol.  It  shall  do  well ;  but  yet  I  do  believe, 
The  origin  and  commencement  of  his  grief 
Sprung  from  neglected  love. — How  now,  Ophelia  1 
You  need  not  tell  us  what  lord  Hamlet  said ; 
We  heard  it  ail. — My  lord,  do  as  you  please  ; 
But,  if  you  hold  it  fit,  after  the  play, 
Let  his  queen  mother  all  alone  entreat  him 
To  show  his  grief ;  let  her  be  round  with  him  ; 
And  I'll  be  plac'd,  so  please  you,  in  the  ear 
Of  all  their  conference  :  If  she  find  him  not, 
To  England  send  him  :  or  confine  him,  where 
Your  wisdom  best  shall  think. 

King.  It  shall  be  so  : 

Madness  in  great  ones  must  not  unwatch'd  go. 

[  Exeunt 

SCENE  II.— .A  Hall  in  lite  same. 
Enter  HAMLET,  and  certain  Players. 

Hum.  Speak  the  speech,  I  pray  you,  as  I  pronounced  it  to  you, 
trippingly  on  the  tongue  :  but  if  you  mouth  it,  as  many  of  our  play- 


HAMLET.  29 

ers  do,  I  had  as  lief  the  town-crier  spoke  my  lines.  Nor  do  not  saw 
the  air  too  much  with  your  hand,  thus ;  but  use  aJ  gently :  for  in 
the  very  torrent,  tempest,  and  (as  I  may  say)  whirlwind  of  your 
passion,  you  must  acquire  and  beget  a  temperance,  that  may  give  it 
smoothness.  O,  it  offends  me  to  the  soul,  to  hear  a  robustious  peri- 
wig-pated  fellow  tear  a  passion  to  tatters,  to  very  rags,  to  split  the 
ears  of  the  groundlings  ;  who,  for  the  most  part  are  capable  of  no- 
thing but  inexplicable  dumb  shows,  and  noise  :  I  would  have  such  a 
fellow  whipped  for  o'erdoing  Termagant ;  it  cut-herods  Heioa :  pray 
you,  avoid  it. 

1st  Play.  I  warrant,  your  honor. 

Ham.  Be  not  too  tame  neither,  but  let  your  awn  discretion  be 
your  tutor :  suit  the  action  to  the  word,  the  word  to  the  action ;  with 
this  special  observance,  that  you  o'erstep  not  the  modesty  of  nature  ; 
for  any  thing  so  overdone  is  from  the  purpose  of  playing,  whose  end, 
both  at  the  first,  and  now,  was,  and  is,  to  hold,  as  'twere,  the  mirror 
up  to  nature ;  to  show  virtue  her  own  feature,  scorn  her  own  image, 
and  the  very  age  and  body  of  the  time,  his  form  and  pressure.  Now 
this,  overdone,  or  come  tardy  off,  though  it  make  the  unskilful  laugh, 
cannot  but  make  the  judicious  grieve ;  the  ensure  of  which  one, 
must,  in  your  allowance,  o'erweigh  a  whole  tLuutre  of  others.  O, 
there  be  players,  that  I  have  seen  play, — and  heard  others  praise, 
and  that  highly, — not  to  speak  it  profanely,  that,  neither  having  the 
accent  of  Christians,  nor  the  gait  of  Christian,  Pagan,  nor  man,  have 
so  strutted,  and  bellowed,  that  I  have  thought  some  of  nature's 
journeymen  had  made  men,  and  not  made  them  well,  they  imitated 
humanity  so  abominably. 

1st  Play.  I  hope,  we  have  reformed  that  indifferently  with  us. 

Ham.  O,  reform  it  altogether.  And  let  those,  that  play  your 
clowns,  speak  no  more  than  is  set  down  For  them ;  for  there  be  of 
them,  that  will  themselves  laugh,  to  set  on  some  quantity  of  barren 
spectators  to  laugh  too ;  though,  in  the  mean  time,  some  necessary 
question  of  the  play  be  then  to  be  considered  :  that's  viitannus ;  and 
shows  a  most  pitiful  ambition  in  the  fool  that  uses  it.  Go,  make 
you  ready  [Exeunt  Players. 

Ham.  What,  ho ;  Horatio ! 

Enter  HORATIO. 

Hor.  Here,  sweet  lord,  at  your  service. 

Ham.  Horatio,  thou  art  e'en  as  just  a  man 
As  e'er  my  conversation  cop'd  withal. 

Hor.  O,  my  dear  lord, — 

Ham.  Nay,  do  not  think  I  flatter : 

For  what  advancement  may  I  hope  from  thee, 
That  no  revenue  hast,  but  thy  gooa  spirits, 
To  feed  and  clothe  thee  ?     Why  should  the  poor  be  flatter'd  ? 
No,  let  the  candied  tongue  lick  absurd  pomp ; 
And  crook  the  pregnant  hinges  of  the  knee, 
Where  thrift  may  follow  fawning.    Dost  thou  hear  7 


30  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Since  my  dear  soul  was  mistress  of  her  choice, 

And  could  of  men  distinguish  her  election, 

She  hath  seal'd  thee  for  herself :  for  thou  hast  been 

As  one,  in  suffering  all,  that  suffers  nothing ; 

A  man,  that  fortune's  buffets  and  rewards 

Hath  ta'en  with  equal  thanks :  and  bless'd  are  those, 

Whose  blood  and  judgment  are  so  well  co-mingled, 

That  they  are  not  a  pipe  for  fortune's  finger 

To  sound  what  stop  she  please  :  Give  me  that  man 

That  is  not  passion's  slave,  and  I  will  wear  him 

In  my  heart's  core,  ay,  in  my  heart  of  heart, 

As  I  do  thee. — Something  too  much  of  this. — 

There  is  a  play  to-night  before  the  king : 

One  scene  of  it  comes  near  the  circumstance, 

Which  I  have  told  thee  of  my  father's  death. 

I  pr'ythee,  when  thou  seest  that  act  a-foot, 

Even  with  the  very  comment  of  thy  soul 

Observe  my  uncle :  if  his  occulted  guilt 

Do  not  itself  unkennel  in  one  speech. 

It  is  a  damned  ghost  that  we  have  seen ; 

And  my  imaginations  are  as  foul 

As  Vulcan's  stithy.     Give  him  heedful  note : 

For  I  mine  eyes  will  rivet  to  his  face ; 

And,  after,  we  will  both  our  judgments  join 

In  censure  of  his  seeming. 

Har.  Well,  my  lord. 

Ham.  They  are  coming  to  the  play ;  I  must  be  idle  : 
Get  you  a  place. 

Danish  march.     A  flourish.     Enter  KING,  QUEEN,  POLONIUS, 
OPHELIA,  ROSENCRANTZ,  GUILDENSTERN,  and  others. 

King.  How  fares  our  cousin  Hamlet  ? 

Ham.  Excellent,  i'faith ;  of  the  camelion's  dish : 
[  eat  the  air  promise-crammed :  You  cannot  feed  capons  so. 

King.  I  have  nothing  with  this  answer,  Hamlet ;  these  words  are 
not  mine. 

Ham.  No,  nor  mine  now.     My  lord, — you  played  once  in  the 
university,  yon,  say  ?  [To  POLONIUS. 

Pol.  That  did  I,  my  lord ;  and  was  accounted  a  good  actor. 

Ham.  And  what  did  you  enact  ? 

Pol.  I  did  enact  Julius  Caesar  :  I  was  killed  i'the  Capitol ;  Brutus 
killed  me. 

Ham.  It  was  a  brute  part  of  him,  to  kill  so  capital  a  calf  there.— 
P  *  the  players  ready  ? 

Ros.  Ay,  my  lord ;  they  s&y  upon  jour  patience. 

Queen.  Come  hither,  my  dear  Hamlet,  sit  by  me. 

Ham.  No,  good  mother,  here's  metal  more  attract:  te. 

Pol.  O  ho !  do  you  mark  that  ?  [To  the  Kmo. 


HAMLET.  31 

Ham.  Lady,  shall  I  lie  in  your  lap  ? 

[Lying  down  at  OPHELIA'S  feet. 

Oph.  You  are  merry,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Wlio,  I  ? 

Oph.  Ay,  my  lord. 

Ham.  O !  your  only  jig-maker.  What  should  a  man  do  but  be 
merry?  for,  look  you,  how  cheerfully  my  mother  looks,  and  my 
father  died  within  these  two  hours. 

Oph.  Nay,  'tis  twice  two  months,  my  lord. 

Ham.  So  long  2  Nay,  then  let  the  devil  wear  black,  for  I'll  have 
a  suit  of  sables.  O  heavens  !  die  two  months  ago,  and  not  forgotten 
yet  ?  Then  there's  hope,  a  great  man's  memory  may  outlive-  his  life 
naif  a  year :  But,  by'r-lady,  he  must  build  churches  then. 

Ovh.  What  means  the  play,  my  lord  ? 

Ham.  Marry,  this  is  miching  mallecho  ;  it  means  mischief. 

Oph.  But  what  is  the  argument  of  the  play  ? 

Enter  Prologue. 

Ham.  We  shall  know  by  this  fellow. 
Pro.  For  us,  and  for  our  tragedy, 

Here  stooping  to  your  clemency, 

We  beg  your  hearing  patiently. 
Ham.  Is  this  a  prologue,  or  the  posy  of  a  ring  ? 
Oph.  'Tis  brief,  my  lord. 
Ham.  As  woman's  love. 

The  play  selected  by  Hamlet  is  performed  before  the  court ;  in  which  the  supposed 
murder  of  his  father  is  exhibited. 

The  player  Q.ueen  protests  to  her  husband — that — 

— Both  here,  and  hence,  pursue  me  lasting  strife, 
f,  once  a  widow,  ever  I  be  wife  ! 

Ham.  If  she  should  break  it  now, [To  OPHELIA. 

P.  King.  '  Tis  deeply  sivorn.     Sweet,  leave  me  here  a  while  ; 
My  spirits  grow  dull,  and  fain  I  would  beguile 
The  tedious  day  with  sleep.  [Sleeps. 

P.  Queen.  Sleep  rock  thy  brain, 

And  never  come  mischance  between  us  twain !  [Exit, 

Ham.  Madam,  how  like  you  this  play  ? 

Queen.  The  lady  doth  protest  too  much,  methinks. 

Ham.  O,  but  she'll  keep  her  word. 

.King.  Have  you  heard  the  argument  ?    Is  there  no  offence  in't  ? 

Ham.  No,  no,  they  do  but  jest,  poison  in  jest  •  no  offence  i'the 
world. 

King.  What  do  you  call  the  play  ? 

Ham.  The  mouse-trap.  Marry,  how?  Tropically.  This  play 
is  the  image  of  a  murder  done  in  Vienna:  Gonzago  is  the  Duke's 
name ;  his  wife,  Baptista :  you  shall  see  anon ;  'tis  a  knavish  piece 
of  work :  But  what  of  that  ?  your  majesty,  and  we  that  have  free 


32  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

souls,  it  touches  us  not :  Let  the  galled  jade  wince,  our  withers  are 
unwrung. — 

Enter  a  Player,  as  Lucianus. 

This  is  one  Lucianus,  nephew  to  the  king. 
Oph.  You  are  as  good  as  a  chorus,  my  lord. 
Ham.  I  could  interpret  between  you  arid  your  love,  if  I  could  see 
one  puppets  dallying. — Begin,  murderer ; — begin  ; 

: The  croaking  raven  doth  bellow  for  revenge. 

Luc.  Thoughts  black,  hands  apt,  drugs  fit,  and  time  agreeing ; 
Confederate  season,  else  no  creature  seeing ; 
Thou  mixture  rank,  of  midnight  weeds  collected, 
With  Hecate's  ban  thrice  blasted,  thrice  infected, 
Thy  natural  magic  and  dire  property, 
On  wholesome  life  usurp  immediately. 

[Pours  the  poison  into  the  sleeper's  ears. 

Ham.  He  poisons  him  i'  the  garden  for  his  estate.  His  name's 
Gonzago ;  the  story  is  extant,  and  written  in  very  choice  Italian : 
You  shall  see  anon,  how  the  murderer  gets  the  love  of  Gonzago'a 
wife. 

Oph.  The  king  rises. 
Ham.  What !  frighted  with  false  fire  ! 
Queen.  How  fares  my  lord  ? 
Pol.  Give  o'er  the  play. 
King.  Give  me  some  light : — away ! 
,  Pol.  Lights,  lights,  lights  ! 

[Exeunt  all  but  HAMLET  and  HORATIO. 
Ham.  Why,  let  the  strucken  deer  go  weep, 

The  hart  ungalled  play  : 
For  some  must  watch,  while  some  must  sleep ; 

Thus  runs  the  world  away : — 

O  good  Horatio,  I'll  take  the  ghost's  word  for  a  thousand  pound 
Did'st  perceive  ? 

Hor.  Very  well,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Upon  the  talk  of  the  poisoning, 

Hor.  I  did  very  well  note  him. 

Ham.  Ah,  ha ! — Come,  some  music  ;  come,  the  recorders. — 
For  if  the  king-  like  not  the  comedy, 
Why  then,  belike,— he  likes  it  not,  perdy. 

Enter  ROSENCRANTZ  and  GUILDENSTERN. 
Come,  some  music. 

Guil.  Good  my  lord,  vouchsafe  me  a  word  with  you. 
Ham.  Sir,  a  whole  history. 

Guil.  The  king,  sir, 

Ham.  Ay,  sir,  what  of  him  ? 

Guil.  Is,  in  his  retirement,  marvellous  distempered. 

Ham.  With  drink,  sir  ? 


HAMLET.  $9 

Guil.  No,  my  lord,  with  choler. 

Ham.  Your  wisdom  should  show  itself  more  richer,  to  signify  this 
to  the  doctor]  for,  for  me  to  put  him  to  his  purgation,  would,  perhaps, 
plunge  him  into  more  choler. 

Guil.  Good  my  lord,  put  your  discourse  into  some  frame,  and 
start  not  so  wildly  from  my  affair. 

Ham.  I  am  tame,  sir  : — pronounce. 

Guil.  The  queen,  your  mother,  in  most  great  affliction  of  spirit, 
hath  sent  me  to  you. 

Ham.  You  are  welcome. 

Guil.  Nay,  good  my  lord,  this  courtesy  is  not  of  the  right  breed. 
If  it  shall  please  you  to  make  me  a  wholesome  answer,  I  will  do  your 
mother's  commandment :  if  not,  your  pardon,  and  my  return,  shall 
be  the  end  of  my  business. 

Ham.  Sir,  I  cannot. 

Guil.  What,  my  lord  ? 

Ham.  Make  you  a  wholesome  answer ;  my  wit's  diseased :  But 
sir,  such  answer  as  I  can  make,  you  shall  command  ;  or,  rather,  as 
you  say,  my  mother :  therefore,  no  more,  but  to  the  matter ;  My 
mother,  you  say, 

Ros.  Then  thus  she  says ;  Your  behavior  hath  struck  her  into 
amazement  and  admiration. 

Ham.  O  wonderful  son,  that  can  so  astonish  a  mother ! — But  is 
there  no  sequel  at  the  heels  of  this  mother's  admiration ;  impart. 

Ros.  She  desires  to  speak  with  you  in  her  closet. 

Ham.  We  shall  obey,  were  she  ten  times  our  mother.  Have  you 
any  further  trade  with  us  ? 

Ros.  My  lord,  you  once  did  love  me. 

Ham.  And  do  still,  by  these  pickers  and  stealers. 

Ros.  Good  my  lord,  what  is  your  cause  of  distemper  ?  you  do, 
surely,  but  bar  the  door  upon  your  own  liberty,  if  you  drny  your 
griefs  to  your  friend. 

Ham.  Sir,  I  lack  advancement. 

Ros.  How  can  that  be,  when  you  have  the  voice  of  the  king  him- 
self for  your  succession  in  Denmark  ? 

Ham.  Ay  sir,  but  While  the  grass  grows, — the  proverb  is  some- 
thing musty 

Enter  the  Players,  with  recorders. 

O,  the  recorders  : — let  me  see  one. — To  withdraw  with  you : — Why 
do  you  go  about  to  recover  the  wind  of  me,  as  if  you  would  f*rive  mo 
into  a  toil  ? 

Guil.  O,  my  lord,  if  my  duty  be  too  bold,  my  love  is  toe  unman- 
nerly. 

Ham.  I  do  not  well  understand  that.  Will  you  play  mon  this 
Dipe? 

Guil.  My  lord,  I  cannot. 

Ham.  I  pray  you. 

Guil.  Believe  me,  I  cannot 


34  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Ham.  I  do  beseech  you. 

GuU.  I  know  no  touch  of  it,  my  lord. 

Ham.  'Tis  as  easy  as  lying :  govern  these  ventages  with  you! 
fingers  and  thumb,  give  it  breath  with  your  mouth,  and  it  wiL  dis- 
course most  eloquent  music.  Look  you,  these  are  the  stops. 

Gull.  But  these  cannot  I  command  to  any  utterance  of  harmony 
I  have  not  the  skill. 

Ham.  Why,  look  you  now,  how  unworthy  a  thing  you  make  of 
me.  You  would  play  upon  me  ;  you  would  seem  to  know  my  stops 
you  would  pluck  out  the  heart  of  my  mystery ;  you  would  sound  me 
from  my  lowest  note  to  the  top  of  my  compass  :  and  there  is  much 
music,  excellent  voice,  in  this  little  organ ;  yet  cannot  you  make  it 
speak.  S'blood,  do  you  think,  I  am  easier  to  be  played  on  than  a 
pipe  ?  Call  me  what  instrument  you  will,  though  you  can  fret  met 
you  cannot  play  upon  me. 

Enter  POLONIUS. 

God  bless  you,  sir. 

Pol.  My  lord,  the  queen  would  speak  with  you,  and  presently. 

Ham.  Do  you  see  yonder  cloud,  that's  almost  in  shape  of  a  camel  ? 

Pol.  By  the  mass,  and  'tis  like  a  camel,  indeed. 

Ham.  Methinks,  it  is  like  a  weasel. 

Pol.  It  is  backed  like  a  weasel. 

Ham.  Or,  like  a  whale  ? 

Pol.  Very  like  a  whale. 

Ham.  Then  will  I  come  to  my  mother  by  and  by. — They  fool  me 
to  the  top  of  my  bent. — I  will  come  by  and  by. 

Pol.  I  will  say  so.  [Exit  POLONIUS, 

Ham.  By  and  by  is  easily  said. — Leave  me,  friends. 

[Exeunt  Ros.,  GUIL.,  Hon.,  <$•«• 
Tis  now  the  very  witching  time  of  night ; 
When  churchyards  yawn,  and  hell  itself  breathes  out 
Contagion  to  this  world  :  Now  could  I  drink  hot  blood, 
And  do  such  business  as  the  bitter  day 
Would  quake  to  look  on.     Soft ;  now  to  my  mother. — 
O,  heart,  lose  not  thy  nature  ;  let  not  ever 
The  soul  of  Nero  enter  this  firm  bosom : 
Let  me  be  cruel,  not  unnatural : 
I  will  speak  daggers  to  her,  but  use  none.  [Exu 

SCENE  III.— A  Room  in  the  same* 
Enter  KING,  ROSENCRANTZ,  and  GUILDENSTERN. 

King.  I  like  him  not :  nor  stands  it  safe  with  us, 
To  let  his  madness  range.     Therefore,  prepare  you ; 
[  your  commission  will  forthwith  dispatch, 
And  he  to  England  shall  along  with  you : 
The  terms  of  our  estate  may  not  endure 


HAMLET.  35 

Hazard  so  near  us. 

Arm  you,  I  pray  you,  to  this  speedy  voyage ; 
For  we  will  fetters  put  upon  this  fear, 
Which  now  goes  too  free-footed. 

Ros.  Guil.  We  will  haste  us. 

[Exeunt  ROSENCRANTZ  and  GUILDENSTSRH, 

Enter  POLONIUS. 

Pol.  My  lord,  he's  going  to  his  mother's  closet : 
Behind  the  arras  I'll  convey  myself, 
To  hear  the  process ;  I'll  warrant,  she'll  tax  him  home. 
And.  as  you  said,  and  wisely  was  it  said, 
"Pis  meet,  that  some  more  audience  than  a  mother, 
Since  nature  makes  them  partial,  should  o'erhear 
The  speech  of  vantage.    Fare  you  well,  my  liege : 
I'll  call  upon  you  ere  you  go  to  bed, 
And  tell  you  what  I  know. 

King.  Thanks,  dear  my  lord,  [Exit  POLOHHJ& 

O,  my  offence  is  rank,  it  smells  to  heaven ; 
It  hath  the  primal  eldest  curse  upon  't, 
A  brother's  murder  ! — Pray  can  I  not, 
Though  inclination  be  as  sharp  as  will ; 
My  stronger  guilt  defeats  my  strong  intent ; 
And,  like  a  man  to  double  business  bound, 
I  stand  in  pause  where  I  shall  first  begin, 
And  both  neglect.     What  if  this  cursed  hand 
Were  thicker  than  itself  with  brother's  blcod  ? 
Is  there  not  rain  enough  in  the  sweet  heavens, 
To  wash  it  white  as  snow  ?    Whereto  serves  mercy, 
But  to  confront  the  visage  of  offence  ? 
And  what's  in  prayer,  but  this  two-fold  force, — 
To  be  forestalled,  ere  we  come  to  fall, 
Or  pardon'd,  being  down  ?     Then  I'll  look  up ; 
My  fault  is  past.     But,  O,  what  form  of  prayer 
Can  serve  my  turn  ?     Forgive  me  my  foul  murder  !— 
That  cannot  be  ;  since  I  am  still  possess'd 
Of  those  effects  for  which  I  did  the  murder, 
My  crown,  mine  own  ambition,  and  my  queen. 
May  one  be  pardon'd,  and  retain  the  offence  ? 
In  the  corrupted  currents  of  this  world, 
Offence's  gilded  hand  may  shove  by  justice ; 
And  oft  'tis  seen,  the  wicked  prize  itself 
Buys  out  the  law :  But  'tis  not  so  above  : 
There  is  no  shuffling,  there  the  action  lies 
In  his  true  nature ;  and  we  ourselves  compelled, 
Even  to  the  teeth  and  forehead  of  our  faults, 
To  give  in  evidence.     What  then  ?  what  resta  ? 
Try  what  repentance  can  :  What  cm  it  not  ? 


SHAKSPEARIAN   READER. 

Yet  what  can  it,  when  one  cannot  repent  ? 

O  wretched  state  !  O  bosom,  black  as  death ! 

O  limed  soul ;  that  struggling  to  be  free, 

Art  more  engag'd !  Help,  angels,  make  assay ! 

Bow,  stubborn  knees  !  and,  heart,  with  strings  cf  steel, 

Be  soft  as  sinews  of  the  new-born  babe ;  • 

^11  may  be  well !  [Retires  and  Timeli 

SCENE  IV. — Another  Room  in  the  same. 
Enter  QUEEN  and  POLONIUS. 

Pol.  He  will  come  straight.     Look,  you  lay  home  to  him ; 
Tell  him,  his  pranks  have  been  too  broad  to  bear  with ; 
And  that  your  grace  hath  screen'd  and  stood  betweon 
Much  heat  and  him.     I'll  silence  me  e'en  here. 
Pray  you,  be  round  with  him. 

Queen.  I'll  warrant  you ; 

Fear  me  not :  withdraw,  I  hear  him  coming. 

[POLONIUS  hides  himself 

Enter  HAMLET. 

Ham.  Now,  mother ;  what's  the  matter  ? 

Queen.  Hamlet,  thou  hast  thy  father  much  offended. 

Ham.  Mother,  you  have  my  father  much  offended. 

Queen.  Come,  come,  you  answer  with  an  idle  tongue. 

Ham.  Go,  go,  you  question  with  a  wicked  tongue. 

Queen.  Why,  how  now,  Hamlet  ? 

Ham.  What's  the  matter  now  ? 

Queen.  Have  you  forgot  me  ? 

Ham.  '  No,  by  the  rood,  not  so ; 

You  are  the  queen,  your  husband's  brother's  wife ; 
And, — 'would  it  were  not  so  ! — you  are  my  mother. 

Queen.  Nay,  then  I'll  set  those  to  you  that  can  speak. 

Ham.  Come,  come,  and  sit  you  down  ;  you  shall  not  budge ; 
You  go  not,  till  I  set  you  up  a  glass 
Where  you  may  see  the  inmost  part  of  you. 

Queen.  What  wilt  thou  do  ?  thou  wilt  not  murder  me  ? 
Help,  help,  ho ! 

Pol  [Behind.]     What,  ho  !  help! 

Ham.  How  now  !  a  rat  ?     [Draws 

Dead,  for  a  ducat,  dead. 

[HAMLET  makes  a  pass  through  the  arras 

Pol  [Behind.]     O,  I  am  slain.  [Falls,  and  dies, 

Queen.  O  me,  what  hast  thou  done  ? 

Ham.  Nay,  I  know  not : 

Is  it  the  king  ? 

[Lifts  up  the  arras,  and  draws  forth  POLONIUS 

Q,ueen.  O,  what  a  rash  and  bloody  deed  is  this  ! 


HA'IMLET.  37 

Ham.  A  bloody  deed  ; — almost  as  bad,  good  mother, 
As  kill  a  king,  and  marry  with  his  brother. 

Queen.  As  kill  a  king ! 

Ham.  Ah,  lady,  'twas  my  word.^- 

Thou  wretched,  rash,  intruding  fool,  farewell ! 

[ToPQLCNFJ* 

I  took  thee  for  thy  better  ; 

Leave  wringing  of  your  hands  :  Peace,  sit  you  down, 

And  let  me  wring  your  heart :  for  so  I  shall, 

If  It  be  made  of  penetrable  stuff; 

If  damned  custom  have  not  braz'd  it  so, 

That  it  be  proof  and  bulwark  against  sense. 

Queen.  What  have  I  done,  that  thou  dar'st  uag  thy  tongue 
In  noise  so  rude  against  me  ? 

Ham.  Such  an  act, 

That  blurs  the  grace  and  blush  of  modesty ; 
Calls  virtue,  hypocrite  ;  takes  off  the  rose 
From  the  fair  forehead  of  an  innocent  love, 
And  sets  a  blister  there  ;  makes  marriage  vows 
As  false  as  dicers'  oaths  :  O,  such  a  deed 
As  from  the  body  of  contraction  plucks 
The  very  soul ;  and  sweet  religion  makes 
A  rhapsody  of  words :  Heaven's  face  doth  glow ; 
Yea,  this  solidity  and  compound  mass, 
With  tristful  visage,  as  against  the  doom, 
Is  thought-sick  at  the  act. 

Queen.  Ah  me,  what  act, 

That  roars  so  loud,  and  thunders  in  the  index  ? 

Ham.  Look  here,  upon  this  picture,  and  on  this ; 
The  counterfeit  presentment  of  two  brothers. 
See,  what  a  grace  was  seated  on  this  brow : 
Hyperion's  curls ;  the  front  of  Jove  himself; 
An  eye  like  Mars,  to  threaten  and  command ; 
A  station  like  the  herald  Mercury, 
New-lighted  on  a  heaven-kissing  hill ; 
A  combination,  and  a  form,  indeed, 
Where  every  God  did  seem  to  set  his  seal, 
To  give  the  world  assurance  of  a  man  : 
This  was  your  husband. — Look  you  now,  what  follows 
Here  is  your  husband ;  like  a  mildew'd  ear, 
Blasting  his  wholesome  brother.     Have  you  eyes  ? 
Could  you  on  this  fair  mountain  leave  to  feed, 
And  batten  on  this  moor  ?     Ha !  have  you  eyes  f 
You  cannot  call  it  love  :  for,  at  your  age, 
The  hey-day  in  the  blood  is  tame,  it's  humble, 
And  waits  upon  the  judgment :  and  what  judgment 
Would  step  from  this  to  this  ? 
O  shame  !  where  is  thy  blush  ? 

Queen.  O  Hamlet,  speak  no  more, 


SEAKSPEARIAN   READER. 

Thou  turn'st  my  eyes  into  my  very  soul ; 

And  there  I  see  such  black  and  grained  spots, 

As  will  not  leave  their  tinct. 

Speak  to  me  no  more ; 

These  words,  like  daggers,  enter  in  mine  ears : 

No  mere,  sweet  Hamlet. 

Ham.  A  murderer,  and  a  villain : 

A  slave,  that  is  not  twentieth  part  the  tithe 
Of  your  precedent  lord  : — a  vice  of  kings  : 
A  cutpurse  of  the  empire  and  the  rule ; 
That  from  a  shelf  the  precious  diadem  stole, 
And  put  it  in  his  pocket ! 

Queen.  No  more. 

Enter  Ghost. 

Ham.  A  king 

Of  shreds  and  patches  : — 
Save  me,  and  hover  o'er  me  with  your  wings, 
You  heavenly  guards  ! — What  would  your  gracious  figure  t 

Queen.  Alas  !  he's  mad. 

Ham.  Do  you  not  come  your  tardy  son  to  chide, 
That,  laps'd  in  time  and  passion,  lets  go  by 
The  important  acting  of  your  dread  command  ? 
O,  say. 

Ghost.  Do  not  forget :  this  visitation 
Is  but  to  whet  thy  almost  blunted  purpose. 
But,  look  !  amazement  on  thy  mother  sits : 
O,  step  between  her  and  her  fighting  soul ; 
Speak  to  her,  Hamlet. 

Ham.  How  is  it  with  you,  lady  ? 

Queen.  Alas,  how  is  't  with  you  ? 
That  you  do  bend  your  eye  on  vacancy, 
And  with  the  incorporal  air  do  hold  discourse  1 
O  gentle  son, 

Upon  the  heat  and  flame  of  thy  distemper 
Sprinkle  cool  patience.     Whereon  do  you  look  ? 

Ham.  On  him  !  on  him  ! — Look  you,  how  pale  he  glares  I 
His  form  and  cause  conjoin'd,  preaching  to  stones, 
Would  make  them  capable. — Do  not  look  upon  me ; 
Lest,  with  this  piteous  action,  you  convert 
My  stern  effects :  then  what  I  have  to  do 
Will  want  true  color ;  tears,  perchance,  for  blood. 

Queen.  To  whom  do  you  speak  this  ? 

Ham.  Do  you  see  nothing  there  ? 

Queen.  Nothing  at  all ;  yet  all,  that  is,  I  see. 

Ham.  Nor  did  you  nothing  hear  ? 

Queen.  No,  nothing,  but  ourselves. 

Ham.  Why,  look  you  there  !  look  how  it  steals  away ! 


HAMLET.  39 

My  father,  in  his  native  habit  as  he  lived ! 

Look,  where  he  goes,  even  now,  put  at  the  portal !         [Exit  Ghost 

Queen.  This  is  the  very  coinage  of  your  brain : 
This  bodiless  creation  ecstasy 
Is  very  cunning  in. 

Ham.  Ecstasy  ! 

My  pulse,  as  yours,  doth  temperately  keep  time. 
And  makes  as  healthful  music  :  It  is  not  madness, 
That  I  have  utter'd :  bring  me  to  the  test, 
And  I  the  matter  will  re-word ;  which  madness 
Would  gambol  from.     Mother,  for  love  of  grace, 
Lay  not  that  flattering  unction  to  your  soul, 
That  not  your  trespass,  but  my  madness,  speaks  : 
It  will  but  skin  and  film  the  ulcerous  place  ; 
Whiles  rank  corruption,  mining  all  within, 
Infects  unseen.     Confess  yourself  to  heaven  ; 
Repent  what's  past :  avoid  what  is  to  come. 

Queen.  O  Hamlet !  thou  hast  cleft  my  heart  in  twain. 

Ham.  O  throw  away  the  worser  part  of  it, 
And  live  the  purer  with  the  other  half. 
Good  night : — 

And  when  you  are  desirous  to  be  bless'd, 
I'll  blessing  beg  of  you. — For  this  same  lord, 

[Pointing  to  POLONIUS. 
I  do  repent : 

I  will  bestow  him,  and  will  answer  well 
The  death  I  gave  him.     So,  again,  good  night ! 
I  must  be  cruel,  only  to  be  kind  : 
Thus  bad  begins,  and  worse  remains  behind. 


ACT  IV. 

The  guilty  King  and  Queen,  alarmed  at  the  consequences  which  may  result  from 
Hamlet's  evident  knowledge  of  their  crimes,  determine  to  send  him  to  England  under  the 
charge  of  Rosencrantz  and  Guildenstern,  with  private  instructions  to  the  king  of  Eng- 
land to  effect  "  The  present  death  of  Handet."  This  is  done,  and  the  young  prince 
sails  for  England.  Ophelia,  overcome  with  grief,  at  the  death  of  her  father,  becomes 
distracted,  and  seeks  an  interview  with  the  Q,ueen.  Young  Laertes  returns  from 
France,  and  charges  the  King  with  being  privy  to  the  murder  of  Polonius. 

SCENE  V.— Elsinore.    A  Room  in  the  Castle. 
Enter  QUEEN  and  HORATIO. 

Queen.  I  will  not  speak  with  her. 

ffor.  She  is  importunate ;  indeed,  distract. 

Queen.  Let  her  come  in.  '[Exit  HORATIO, 

'Twere  good  she  were  spoken  with ;  for  she  may  strew 
Dangerous  conjectures  in  Sll-breeding  minds. 


40  SHAKSPEARIAN    READEB. 

Enter  OPHELIA. 

Oph.  Where  is  the  beauteous  majesty  of  Denmark  ? 

Queen.  How  now,  Ophelia  ? 

Oph.       How  should  I  your  true  love  know  [Singing 

From  another  one  ? 
By  his  cockle  hat  and  staff. 

And  his  sandal  shoon  ? 

Queen.  Alas,  sweet  lady,  what  imports  this  song  ? 
Oph.  Say  you  ?  nay,  pray  you,  mark. 

Hz  is  dead  and  gone,  lady,  [Sings. 

He  is  dead  and  gone ; 
At  his  head  a  grass-green  turf, 
At  his  heels  a  stone. 

O,ho! 

Queen.  Nay,  but  Ophelia, 

Oph.  Pray  you,  mark. 

White  his  shrewd  as  tlie  mountain  snow,  [Sings. 

Enter  KING. 
Queen.  Alas,  look  here, my  lord. 

Oph.          Larded  all  with  sweet  flowers ; 
Which  bewept  to  the  grave  did  go, 
With  ti'ue-love  showers. 

King.  How  do  you,  pretty  lady  ? 

Oph.  Well,  Heaven  'ield  you !  They  say,  the  owl  was  a  baker's 
daughter.  We  know  what  we  are,  but,  know  not  what  we 
may  be. 

King.  How  long  hath  she  been  thus  ? 

Oph.  I  hope,  all  will  be  well.  We  must  be  patient :  but  I  cannot 
choose  but  weep,  to  think,  they  should  lay  him  i'  the  cold  ground : 
My  brother  shall  know  of  it,  and  so  I  thank  you  for  your  good 
counsel.  Come,  my  coach  !  Good  night,  ladies  ;  good  night,  sweet 
ladies  ;  good  night,  good  night.  [Exit. 

King.  Follow  her  close ;  give  her  good  watch,  I  pray  you. 

[Exit  HOEATIO. 

O  !  This  is  the  poison  of  deep  grief;  it  springs 
All  from  her  father's  death : 

Enter  a  Gentleman. 

What's  the  matter  ? 

Gent.  Save  yourself,  my  lord. 

The  young  Laertes,  in  a  riotous  head, 
O'erbears  your  officers :  The  rabble  call  him,  lord  ; 
They  cry,  Choose,  we ;  Laertes  shall  be  king ! 
Caps,  hands,  and  tongues,  applaud  it  to  the  clouds, 
Laertes  shall  be  king,  Laertes  king ! 


HAMLET.  41 

Queen.  How  cheerfully  on  the  false  trail  they  cry  ! 

King.  The  doors  are  broke.  [Noise  jitkin. 

• 

Enter  LAERTES. 

Laer.  Where  is  this  king  ? — Sirs,  stand  you  all  without. 
0  thou  vile  king,  give  me  my  father. 

Queen.  Calmly,  good  Laertes. 

King.  What  is  the  cause,  Laertes, 
That  thy  rebellion  looks  so  giant-like  ? — 
Let  him  go,  Gertrude  ;  do  not  fear  our  person ; 
There's  such  divinity  doth  hedge  a  king, 
That  treason  can  but  peep  to  what  it  would. 
Why  art  thou  thus  incens'd  ; — Let  him  go,  Gertrude  ;— 
Speak,  man. 

Laer.  Where  is  my  father  ? 

King.  Dead. 

Queen.  But  not  by  him. 

King.  Let  him  demand  his  fill. 

Laer.  How  came  he  dead  ?    I'll  not  be  juggled  with : 
To  this  point  I  stand, — 
That  both  the  worlds  I  give  to  negligence, 
Let  come  what  comes  ;  only  I'll  be  reveng'd 
Most  throughly  for  my  father. 

King.  Who  shall  stay  you  ? 

Laer.  My  will,  not  all  the  world's : 
And,  for  my  means,  I'll  husband  them  so  well, 
They  shall  go  far  with  little. 

King.  Good  Laertes, 

That  lam  guiltless  of  your  father's  death, 
And  am  most  sensibly  in  grief  for  it, 
It  shall  as  level  to  your  judgment  'pear, 
As  day  does  to  your  eye. 

Enter  OPHELIA  fantastically  dressed  witli  straws  andjloioers 

Laer.  O  rose  of  May  ! 

Dear  maid,  kind  sister,  sweet  Ophelia  ! — 
O  heavens  !  is't  possible,  a  young  maid's  wits 
Should  be  as  mortal  as  an  old  man's  life  ? 
Nature  is  fine  in  love  :  and,  where  'tis  fine, 
It  sends  some  precious  instance  of  itself 
After  the  thing  it  loves. 

Oph.     They  bore  him  barefaced  on  the  bier  ; 
Hey  no  nonny,  nonny  hey  nonny : 
And  in  his  grave  rain'd  many  a  tear  ;— 
you  well,  my  dove  ' 


42  SHAKSPEARIAN   READER. 

Laer.  Hadst  thou  thy  wits,  and  didst  persuade  revenge, 
It  could  not  move  thus. 

Oph.  You  must  sing,  Down  a-down,  an  yjpu  call  liim  a-down-a* 
O,  how  the  wheel  becomes  it !  It  is  the  false  steward,  that  stole  hi* 
master's  daughter. 

Laer.  This  nothing's  more  than  matter. 

Oph.  There's  rosemary,  that's  for  remembrance ;  pray  you,  love, 
remember  :  and  there  is  pansies,  that's  for  thoughts. 

Laer.  A  document  in  madness  ;  thoughts  and  remembrance 
fitted. 

Oph.  There's  fennel  for  you,  and  columbines  .-^-there's  rue  for 
you ;  and  here's  some  for  me : — we  may  call  it,  herb  of  grace  o'Sun- 
days  : — you  may  wear  your  rue  with  a  difference. — There's  a  daisy:- 
—I  would  give  you  some  violets ;  but  they  withered  all,  when  my 
father  died : — They  say,  he  made  a  good  end, 

For  bonny  sweet  Robin  is  all  my  joy, —  [Sings. 

Laer.  Thought  and  affliction,  passion,  all, 
She  turns  to  favor,  and  to  prettiness. 
Oph.     And  will  lie  not  come  again  ? 
And  will  lie  not  come  again  1 
No,  no,  he  is  dead, 
Go  to  thy^  death-bed, 
He  never  will  come  again. 
His  beard  was  as  white  as  snow, 
All  flaxen  was  his  poll : 
He  is  gone,  he  is  gone, 
And  we  cast  away  moan ; 
And  peace pe  with  his  soul! 
And  with  all  Christian  souls  !     I  pray  heaven  be  wi'  ycu !' 

[Exit  OPHELIA 

Laer.  Do  you  see  this,  O  heaven. 
King.  Laertes,  I  must  commune  with  your  grief, 
Or  you  deny  me  right.     Go  but  apart, 
Make  choice  of  whom  your  wisest  friends  you  will, 
And  they  shall  hear  and  judge  'twist  you  and  me : 
If  by  direct  or  by  collateral  hand 
They  find  us  touch'd,  we  will  our  kingdom  give, 
Our  crown,  our  life,  and  all  that  we  call  ours, 
To  you  in  satisfaction  ;  but,  if  not, 
Be  you  content  to  lend  your  patience  to  us, 
And  we  shall  jointly  labor  with  your  soul 
To  give  it  due  content. 

Laer.  Let  this  be  so  ; 

His  means  of  death,  his  obscure  funeral, — 
No  trophy,  sword,  nor  hatchment,  o'er  his  bones, 
No  noble  rite,  nor  formal  ostentation, — 
Cry  to  be  heard,  as  'twere  from  heaven  to  earth, 
That  I  must  call't  in  question. 


HAMLET.  43 


King.     ,  So  y°u          > 

And,  where^he  offence  is,  let  the  great  axe  fall. 
I  pray  you,  go  with  me.  [Exeunt. 

The  ship  in  which  Hamlet  is  embarked  for  England  is  attacked  by  pirates  ;  Hamlet 
boards  the  pirate's  vessel,  and  is  captured,  but  is  treated  with  mercy,  and  landed  on  the 
Danish  coast.  He  sends  letters  to  the  King  and  Horatio,  announcing  his  return,  and  de- 
sires the  latter  to  repair  to  him  immediately. 

In  the  interim,  the  King  and  Laertes  become  reconciled,  and  plan  together  the  death 
of  Hamlet. 

Laertes  is  to  engage  the  Prince  at  a  match  of  fencing,  and  with  a  poisoned  rapier  hs 
engages  to  slay  Hamlet,  and  thus  revenge  the  death  of  Polonius.  The  conference  is  iatar- 
nipted  by  the  Queen,  who  rushes  in  to  announce  the  fate  of  Ophelia. 

f       Enter  QUEEN. 

King.  How  now,  sweet  queen  ? 

Queen.  One  woe  doth  tread  upon  another's  heel, 
So  fast  they  follow  :  —  Your  sister's  drown'd,  Laertes. 

Laer.  Drown'd  !  O,  where  ! 

Queen.  There  is  a  willow  grows  ascaunt  the  brook, 
That  shows  his  hoar  leaves  in  the  glassy  stream  ; 
Therewith  fantastic  garlands  did  she  make 
Of  crow-flowers,  nettles,  daisies,  and  long  purples, 
There  on  the  pendant  boughs  her  coronet  weeds 
Clambering  to  hang,  an  envious  sliver  broke  ; 
When  down  her  weedy  trophies,  and  herself, 
Fell  in  the  weeping  brook.     Her  clothes  spread  wide  ; 
And,  mermaid-like,  a  while  they  bore  her  up  : 
Which  time,  she  chanted  snatches  of  old  tunes  ; 
As  one  incapable  of  her  own  distress, 
Or  like  a  creature  native  and  indu'd 
Unto  that  element  :  but  long  it  could  not  be, 
Till  that  her  garments,  heavy  with  their  drink, 
Pull'd  the  poor  wretch  from  her  melodious  lay 
To  muddy  death. 

Laer.  Alas  then,  she  is  drown'd  ? 

Queen.  Drown'd,  drown'd. 

Laer.  Too  much  of  water  hast  thou,  poor  Ophelia, 
And  therefore  I  forbid  my  tears  :  But  yet 
It  is  our  trick  ;  nature  her  custom  holds, 
Let  shame  say  what  it  will  ;  when  these  are  gone, 
The  woman  will  be  out.  —  Adieu,  my  lord  ! 
I  have  a  speech  of  fire,  that  fain  would  blaze, 
But  that  this  folly  drowns  it.  [Exit, 

King.  Let's  follow,  Gertrude  ; 

How  much  I  had  to  do  to  calm  his  rage  ! 
Now  fear  I,  this  will  give  it  start  again  ; 
Therefore,  let's  follow.  [Exeund. 


44  SHAKSPEARIAN   READER. 

ACT  V. 

SCENE  I.— A  Church-Yard. 

Enter  Two  Clowns,  with  spades,  6fC. 

1st  Clo.  Is  she  to  be  buried  in  Christian  burial,  that  wilfully  seek* 
hor  own  salvation  ? 

2nd  Clo.  I  tell  thee,  she  is ;  therefore  make  her  grave  straight : 
the  crowner  hath  set  on  her,  and  finds  it  Christian  burial. 

1st  Clo.  How  can  that  be,  unless  she  drowned  herself  in  her  own 
defence  ? 

2nd  Clo.  Why,  'tis  found  so. 

1st  Clo.  It  must  be  se  ojfendendo;  it  cannot  be  else.  For  here 
lies  the  point :  If  I  drown  myself  wittingly,  it  argues  an  act :  and  an 
act  hath  three  branches ;  it  is,  to  act,  to  do,  and  to  perform :  Argal, 
she  drowned  herself  wittingly. 

2nd  Clo.  Nay,  but  hear  you,  goodman  delver. 

1st  Clo.  Give  me  leave.  Here  lies  the  water;  good :  here  stands 
the  man  ;  good  :  If  the  man  go  to  this  water,  and  drown  himself,  it 
is,  will  he,  nill  he,  he  goes ;  mark  you  that :  but  if  the  water  come  to 
him,  and  drown  him,  he  drowns  not  himself:  Argal,  he,  that  is  not 
guilty  of  his  own  death,  shortens  not  his  own  life. 

2nd  Clo.  But  is  this  law  ? 

1st  Clo.  Ay,  marry  is't ;  crowner's-quest  law. 

2nd  Clo.  Will  you  ha'  the  truth  on't  ?  If  this  had  not  been  a 
gentlewoman,  she  should  have  been  buried  out  of  Christian  burial. 

1st  Clo.  Why,  there  thou  say'st :  And  the  more  pity;  that  great 
folks  shall  have  countenance  in  this  world  to  drown  or  hang  them- 
selves, more  than  their  even  Christian.  Come,  my  spade.  There  is 
no  ancient  gentlemen  but  gardeners,  ditchers,  and  gravemakers  ;  they 
hold  up  Adam's  profession. 

2nd  Clo.  Was  he  a  gentleman  ? 

1st  Clo,  He  was  the  first  that  ever  bore  arms. 

2nd  Clo.  Why,  he  had  none. 

1st  Clo.  What,  art  a  heathen  ?  How  dos'.  thou  understand  the 
scripture  ?  The  scripture  says,  Adam  digged  ;  Could  he  dig  without 
arms  ?  I'll  put  another  question  to  thee  :  if  thou  answerest  me  not 
to  the  purpose,  confess  thyself 

2nd  Clo.  Go  to. 

1st  Clo.  What  is  he,  that  builds  stronger  than  either  the  mason, 
the  shipwright,  or  the  carpenter  ? 

2d  Clo.  The  gallows-maker ;  for  that .  frame  outlives  a  thousand 
tenants. — 

1  st  Clo.  I  like  thy  wit  well,  in  good  faith  ;  the  gallows  does  well : 
Cut  how  does  it  well  ?  it  does  well  to  those  that  do  ill :  now  thou  dost 
ill,  to  say,  the  gallows  is  built  stronger  than  the  church ;  aigal,  the 
gallows  may  do  well  to  thee.  To't  again  ;  come. 

2nd  Clo.  Who  builds  stronger  than  a  mason,  a  shipwright,  or  a 
*arpenter  ? 


HAMLET.  45 

1st  Clo.  Ay,  tell  me  that,  and  unyoke. 
2nd  Clo.  Marry,  now  I  can  tell. 
1st  Clo.  To't. 
2nd  Clo.  Mass,  I  cannot  telL 

Enter  HAMLET  and  HORATIO,  at  a  distance. 

1st  Clo.  Cudgel  thy  brains  no  more  about  it ;  for  your  dull  ass  will 
not  mend  his  pace  with  beating :  and,  when  you  are  asked  this  ques- 
tion next,  say,  a  grave-maker ;  the  houses  that  he  makes,  last  till 
doomsday.  Go,  get  thee  to  Yaughan,  and  fetch  me  a  stoup  of 
liquor.  [Exit  2nd  Clown. 

1st  Clown  digs,  and  sings. 

In  youth,  when  I  did  love,  did  love, 
Methought,  it  was  very  sweet, 
To  contract,  O,  the  time,  for,  ah,  my  behove 
O,  methought,  there  was  nothing  meet. 

Ham.  Has  this  fellow  no  feeling  of  his  business  ?  he  sings  at 
grave-making. 

Hor.  Custom  hath  made  it  in  him  a  property  of  easiness. 

Ham.  Tis  e'en  so :  the  hand  of  little  employment  hath  the  daintier 
sense.  That  skull  had  a  tongue  in  it,  and  could  sing  once :  How 
the  knave  jowls  it  to  the  ground,  as  if  it  were  Cain's  jaw-bone,  that 
did  the  first  murder  !  This  might  be  the  pate  of  a  politician ;  one 
that  would  circumvent  heaven,  might  it  not  ? 

Hor.  It  might,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Did  these  bones  cost  no  more  the  breeding,  but  to  play  at 
Joggats  with  them  ?  mine  ache  to  think  on't.  There's  another  : 
Why  may  not  that  be  the  skull  of  a  lawyer  ?  Where  be  his'quiddits 
now,  his  quillits,  his  cases,  his  tenures,  and  his  tricks  ?  why  does  he 
suffer  this  rude  knave  now  to  knock  him  about  the  sconce  with  a 
dirty  shovel,  and  will  not  tell  him  of  his  action  of  battery  ?  Humph ! 
This  fellow  might  be  in's  time  a  great  buyer  of  land,  with  his  statutes, 
his  recognizances,  his  fines,  his  double  vouchers,  his  recoveries  :  Is 
this  the  fine  of  his  fines,  and  the  recovery  of  his  recoveries,  to  have 
his  fine  pate  full  of  fine  dirt  ?  will  his  vouchers  vouch  him  no  more 
of  his  purchases,  and  double  ones  too,  than  the  length  and  breadth 
of  a  pair  of  indentures  ?  The  very  conveyances  of  his  lands  will 
hardly  lie  in  his  box ;  and  must  the  inheritor  himself  have  no  more  ? 
ha? 

Hor.  Not  a  jot  more,  my  lord. 

Ham.  I  will  speak  to  this  fellow  : — Whose  grave  is  this,  sirrah  ? 

1st  Clo.  Mine,  sir. — 

O,  a  pit  of  clay  for  to  be  made,  [Sings. 

For  such  a  guest  is  meet. 

Ham.  I  think  it  be  thine,  indeed  ;  for  thou  licst  in't. 
1st  Clo.     You  lie  out  on't,  sir,  and  therefore  it  is  not  yours  :  for  my 
part,  I  do  not  lie  in't,  yet  it  is  mine. 


46  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER, 

Ham.  Thou  dost;  life  in't,  to  be  in't,  and  say  it  is  thine :  'tis  for  the 
dead,  not  for  the  quick  ;  therefore  thou  liest. 

1st  Clo.  Tis  a  quick  lie,  sir;  'twill  away  again,  from  me  to  you 

Ham,  What  man  dost  thou  dig  it  for  ? 

1st  Clo.  For  no  man,  sir. 

Ham.  What  woman,  then  ? 

1st  Clo.  For  none  neither. 

Ham.  Who  is  to  be  buried  in't  ? 

1st  Clo.  One  that  was  a  woman,  sir;  but,  rest  her  soul,  she's 
dead. 

Ham.  How  absolute  the  knave  is  !  we  must  speak  by  the  card,  or 
equivocation  will  undo  vis.  By  the  lord,  Horatio,  these  three  years 
I  have  taken  note  of  it ;  the  age  is  grown  so  picked,  that  the  toe  of 
the  peasant  comes  so  near  the  heel  of  the  courtier,  he  galls  his  kibe. 
— How  long  hast  thou  been  a  grave-maker  ? 

1st  Clo.  Of  all  the  days  i'  the  year,  I  came  to't  that  day  that  our 
last  king  Hamlet  overcame  Fortinbras. 

Ham.  How  long's  that  since  ? 

1st  Clo.  Cannot  you  tell  that  ?  every  fool  can  tell  that :  It  was 
that  very  day  that  young  Hamlet  was  born :  he  that  is  mad,  and  sent 
into  England. 

Ham.  Ay,  many,  why  was  he  sent  into  England  ? 

1st  Clo.  Why,  because  he  was  mad :  he  shall  recover  his  wits 
there  ;  or,  if  he  do  not,  'tis  no  great  matter  there. 

Ham.  Why? 

1st  Clo.  'Twill  not  be  seen  in  him  there ;  there  the  men  are  aa 
mad  as  he. 

Ham.  How  came  he  mad  ? 

1st  Clo.  Very  strangely,  they  say. 

Ham.  How  strangely  ? 

1st  Clo.  'Faith,  e'en  with  losing  his  wits. 

Ham.  Upon  what  ground  ? 

1st  GK>.  Why,  here  in  Denmark  ;  I  have  been  sexton  here,  mac 
and  boy,  thirty  years. 

Ham.  How  long  will  a  man  lie  i'  the  earth  ere  he  rot  ? 

1st  Clo.  Why,  sir,  here's  a  skull  now  hath  lain  you  i'  the  earth 
three-and-tu  enty  years. 

Ham.  Whose  was  it  ? 

1st  Clo.  A  mad  fellow's  it  was  ;  Whose  do  you  think  it  was  ? 

Ham.  Nay,  I  know  not. 

1st  Clo.  A  pestilence  on  him  for  a  mad  rogue !  he  poured  a  flagon 
of  Rhenish  on  my  head  once.  This  same  skull,  sir,  was  Yorick's 
skull,  the  king's  jester. 

Ham.  This  ?  [Takes  the  skull. 

1st  Clo.  E'en  that. 

Ham.  Alas,  poor  Yorick ! — I  knew  him,  Horatio ;  a  fellow  of  in- 
finite jest,  of  most  excellent  fancy :  he  hath  borne  me  on  his  back  a 
thousand  times.  Here  hung  those  lips  that  I  have  kissed  I  know 
rot  how  oft.  Where  be  your  gibes  now  ?  your  gambols  ?  vour 


HAMLET.  47 

songs  ?  your  flashes  of  merriment,  that  were  wont  to  set  me  table 
on  a  roar  ?  Not  one  now  to  mock  your  own  grinning  ?  quite  chap- 
fallen  ?  Now  get  you  to  my  lady's  chamber,  and  teil  her,  let  her 
paint  an  inch  thick,  to  this  favor  she  mu:-t  come  ;  make  her  laugh  at 
that. — Pr'ythee,  Horatio,  tell  me  one  thing. 

Hor.  What's  that,  my  lord  ? 

Ham.  Dost  thou  think,    Alexander    looked    o'  this  fashion   i" 
the  earth  ? 

Hor.  E'en  so. 

Ham.  And  smelt* so ?  pah !  [TJirows  down  the  skull 

HOT.  E'en  so,  my  lord. 

Ham.  To  what  base  uses  we  may  return,  Horatio !  Why  may 
not  imagination  trace  the  noble  dust  of  Alexander,  till  he  find  it  stop- 
ping a  bung-hole  ? 

Hor.  'Twere  to  consider  too  curiously,  to  consider  so  ? 

Ham.  No,  faith,  not  a  jot ;  but  to  follow  him  thither  with  modesty 
enough,  and  likelihood  to  lead  it :  As  thus ;  Alexander  died,  Alex- 
ander was  buried,  Alexander  returned  to  dust ;  the  dust  is  earth ; 
of  earth  we  make  loam :  And  why  of  that  loam,  whereto  he  was 
converted,  might  they  not  stop  a  beer-barrel  ? 

Imperious  Caesar,  dead,  and  turn'd  to  clay, 
Might  stop  a  hole  to  keep  the  wind  away  : 
O,  that  the  earth,  which  kept  the  world  in  awe, 
Should  patch  a  wall  to  expel  the  winter's  flaw  ! 
But  soft !  but  soft !  aside  ; — Here  comes  the  king, 

Enter  Priests,  <^c.,  in  procession ;  the  corpse  of  OPHELIA,  LAERTES, 
and  Mourners  following :  KING,  QUEEN,  their  Trains,  <$-c. 

The  queen,  the  courtiers  :  Who  is  this  they  follow  ? 

And  with  such  maimed  rites  !     This  doth  betoken, 

The  corse,  they  follow,  did  with  desperate  hand 

Foredo  its  own  life.     'Twas  of  some  estate : 

Couch  we  awhile,  and  mark.  [Retiring  with  HORATIO, 

Laer.  What  ceremony  else  ? 

Ham.  That  is  Laertes. 

A  very  noble  youth :  Mark. 

Laer.    What  ceremony  else  ? 

1  Priest..  Her  obsequies  havo  been  so  far  enlarg'd 
As  we  have  warranty :  Her  death  was  doubtful ; 
And,  but  that  great  command  o'ersways  the  order, 
She  should  in  ground  unsanctified  have  lodg'd 
Till  the  last  trumpet ;  for  charitable  prayers, 
Shards,  flints,  and  pebbles,  should  be  thrown  on  her, 
Yet  here  she  is  allowed  her  virgin  crants, 
Her  maiden  strewments,  and  the  bringing  home 
Of  bell  and  burial. 

Laer.  Must  there  no  more  be  done  ? 

\  Priest.  No  more  be  done ! 


48  SIIAKSPEARIAN    HEADER. 

We  should  profane  the  service  of  the  dead 
To  sing  a  requiem,  and  such  rest  to  her, 
As  to  peace-parted  souls. 

Laer.  Lay  her  i'  the  earth, — 

And  from  her  fair  and  unpolluted  flesh 
May  violets  spring ! — I  tell  thee,  churlish  priest, 
A  minist'ring  angel  shall  my  sister  be, 
When  thou  liest  howling. 

Ham.  What,  the  fair  Ophelia  ! 

Queen.  Sweets  to  the  sweet :  Farewell :          [  Scattering  flowers. 
1  hop'd,  thou  should'st  have  been  my  Hamlet's  wife  ; 
I  thought,  thy  bride-bed  to  have  deck'd,  sweet  maid, 
And  not  have  strew'd  thy  grave. 

Laer.  O,  treble  woe 

Fall  ten  times  treble  on  that  cursed  head, 
Whose  wicked  deed  thy  most  ingenious  sense 
Depriv'd  thee  of !— Hold  off  the  earth  awhile, 
Till  I  have  caught  her  once  more  in  mine  arms : 

[Leaps  into  the  grave* 

Now  pile  your  dust  upon  the  quick  and  dead ; 
Till  of  this  flat  a  mountain  you  have  made, 
To  o'er-top  old  Pelion,  or  the  skyish  head 
Of  blue  Olympus. 

Ham.  [Advancing.]  What  is  he,  whose  grief 
Bears  such  an  emphasis  ?  whose  phrase  of  sorrow 
Conjures  the  wand'ring  stars,  and  makes  them  stand 
Like  wonder- wounded  hearers  ?  this  is  I, 
Hamlet  the  Dane.  [Leaps  into  tlie  grave 

Laer.  The  devil  take  thy  soul !       [Grappling  with  him. 

Ham.  Thou  pray'st  not  well. 
I  pr'ythee,  take  thy  fingers  from  my  throat ; 
For,  though  I  am  not  splenetive  and  rash, 
Yet  have  I  in  me  something  dangerous, 
Which  let  thy  wisdom  fear :  Hold  off  thy  hand. 

King.  Pluck  them  asunder. 

Queen.  Hamlet,  Hamlet ! 

All.  Gentlemen, 

Hor.  Good  my  lord,  be  quiet. 

[  The  Attendants  part  them,  and  they  come  out  of  the  grave. 

Ham.  Why,  I  will  fight  with  him  upon  this  theme, 
Until  my  eyelids  will  no  longer  wag. 

Queen.  O  my  son !  what  theme  ? 

Ham.  I  loved  Ophelia ;  forty  thousand  brothers 
Could  not  with  all  their  quantity  of  love 
Make  up  my  sum. — Wiiat  wilt  thou  do  for  her  ? 

King.  O,  he  is  mad,  Laertes. 

Ham.  Zounds,  show  me  what  thou'lt  do : 
WouPt  weep?  wonl't  fight?  woul'tfast?  woul't  tear  thyself  * 
WouPt  drink  up  Esil  ?  eat  A  crocodile  ? 


HAMLKT.  49 

I'll  do't. — Dost  thou  come  here  to  whine  ? 
To  outface  me  with  leaping  in  her  grave  ? 
Be  buried  quick  with  her,  and  so  will  I : 
And,  if  thou  prate  of  mountains,  let  them  throw 
Millions  of  acres  on  us ;  till  our  ground 
Singeing  his  pate  against  the  burning  zone, 
Make  Ossa  like  a  wart !     Nay,  an  thou'lt  mouth , 
I'll  rant  as  well  as  thou. 

Queen.  This  is  mere  madness, 

And  thus  awhile  the  fit  will  work  on  him ; 
Anon,  as  patient  as  the  female  dove, 
When  that  her  golden  couplets  are  disclos'd, 
His  silence  will  sit  drooping. 

Ham.  Hear  you,  sir ; 

What-  is  the  reason,  that  you  use  me  thus  ? 
I  lov'd  you  ever :  But  it  is  no  matter ; 
Let  Hercules  himself  do  what  he  may, 
The  cat  will  mew,  and  dog  will  have  his  day,  [Exit. 

King.  I  pray  thee,  good  Horatio,  wait  upon  him. — 

[  pxit  HORATIO. 

Strengthen  your  patience  in  our  last  night's  speech ;   [To  LAERTES. 
We'll  put  the  matter  to  the  present  push. — 
Good  Gertrude,  set  some  watch  over  your  son. — 
This  grave  shall  have  a  living  monument : 
An  hour  of  quiet  shortly  shall  we  see  ; 
Till  then,  in  patience  our  proceeding  be.  [Exeunt, 

Hamlet  has  learned  the  intentions  of  the  King,  in  sending  him  to  England,  and 
while  consulting  with  Hoiatio  how  to  act,  a  messenger  comes  from  Claudius  inviting  the 
Prince  to  a  "  trial  of  skill "  in  fencing,  with  Laertes  ;  Hamlet  accepts  the  challenge,  and 
the  scene  changes  to  a  Hall  in  the  Palace  where  the  court  are  assembled  to  witness  th« 
encounter. 

SCENE  the  last.— A  Hall  in  the  Castle. 

Enter  HAMLET,  HORATIO,  KING,  QUEEN,  LAERTES,  Lords,  OSRIC, 

and  Attendants  with  foils,  cf-c. 
King.  Come,  Hamlet,  come,  and  take  this  hand  from  me. 

[  The  KING  puts  the  hand  of  LAERTES  into  that  of  HAMLET. 
Ham.  Give  me  your  pardon,  sir :  I  have  done  you  wrong ; 
But  pardon  it  as  you  are  a  gentleman. 
Let  my  disclaiming  from  a  purpos'd  evil 
Free  me  so  far  in  your  most  generous  thoughts, 
That  I  have  shot  my  arrow  o'er  the  house, 
And  hurt  my  brother. 

Laer.  I  am  satisfied  in  nature, 

Whose  motive,  in  this  case,  should  stir  me  most 
To  my  revenge : 

I  do  receive  your  offer'd  love  like  love, 
And  will  not  wrong  it. 

4 


50  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Ham.  I  embrace  it  freely  ; 

And  will  this  brother's  wager  frankly  play. — 
Gi\e  us  the  foils  ;  come  on. 

Laer.  Come,  one  for  me. 

Ham.  I'll  be  your  foil,  Laertes  ;  in  mine  ignorance 
Your  skill  shall,  like  a  star  i'  the  darkest  night, 
Stick  fiery  off  indeed. 

Laer.  You  mock  me,  sir. 

Ham.  No,  by  this  hand. 

King.  Give  them  the  foils,  young  Osric. — Cousin  Hamlet, 
You  know  the  wager  ? 

Ham.  Very  well,  my  lord  ; 

Your  grace  hath  laid  the  odds  o'  the  weaker  side. 

King.  I  do  not  fear  it :  I  have  seen  you  both  : — 
But  since  he's  better'd,  we  have  therefore  odds. 

Laer.  This  is  too  heavy,  let  me  see  another. 

Ham.  This  likes  me  well :  These  foils  have  all  a  length  ? 

[They  prepare  to  play 

Osr.  Ay,  my  good  lord. 

King.  Set  me  the  stoups  of  wine  upon  that  tablo 
If  Hamlet  give  the  first  or  second  hit, 
Or  quit  in  answer  of  the  third  exchange, 
Let  all  the  battlements  their  ordnanoe  fire  ; 
The  king  shall  drink  to  Hamlet's  better  breath ; 
And  in  the  cup  an  union  shall  he  throw, 
Richer  than  that  which  four  successive  kings 
In  Denmark's  crown  have  worn ;  Give  me  the  cups  ; 
And  let  the  kettle  to  the  trumpet  speak, 
The  trumpet  to  the  cannoneer  without, 
The  cannons  to  the  heavens,  the  heaven  to  earth, 
Now  the  king  drinks  to  Hamlet. — Come,  begin  ; — 
And  you,  the  judges,  bear  a  wary  eye. 

Ham.  Come  on,  sir, 

Laer.  Come,  my  lord.  [They  play. 

Ham.  One. 

Laer.  No. 

Ham.  Judgment. 

Osr.  A  hit,  a  very  palpable  hit. 

Laer.  Well, — again. 

King.  Stay,  give  me  drink  :  Hamlet,  this  pearl  is  thine  ; 
Here's  to  thy  health. — Give  him  the  cup. 

[  Trumpets  sound ;  and  cannon  slwl  off  within* 

Ham.  I'll  play  this  bout  first,  set  it  by  awhile. 
Come. — Another  hit ;  What  say  you  ?  "  f  They  play, 

Laer.  A  touch,  a  touch,  I  do  confess. 

King.  Our  son  shall  win. 

Queen.  The  queen  carouses  to  thy  fortune,  Hamlet 

Ham.  Good  madam, 

King.  Gertrude,  do  not  drink. 


HAMLET.  51 

Queen.  I  will,  my  lord  ; — I  pray  you,  pardon  me. 

King.  It  is  the  poison'd  cup  ;  it  is  too  late.  [Aside, 

Laer.  I'll  hit  him  now ; 

A.nd  yet  it  is  almost  against  my  conscience.  [Aside. 

Ham.  Come,  for  the  third,  Laertes  :  You  do  but  dally  ; 
I  pray  you,  pass  with  your  best  violence  ; 
}  am  afeard,  you  make  a  wanton  of  me. 

Laer.  Say  you  so  ?  come  on.  [They  play. 

[LAERTES  wounds  HAMLET  ;  then,  in  scuffling,  they 

change  rapiers,  and  HAMLET  wounds  LAERTES. 

King.  Part  them,  they  are  incens'd. 

Ham.  Nay,  come  again.  [The  QUEEN  falls. 

Osr.  Look  to  the  queen  there,  ho ! 

Hor.  They  bleed  on  both  sides  : — How  is  it,  my  lord  ? 

Osr.  How  is't,  Laertes  ? 

Laer.  Why,  as  a  woodcock  to  my  own  springe,  Osric  ; 
I  urn  justly  kill'd  with  mine  own  treachery. 

Ham.  How  does  the  queen  ? 

King.  She  swoons  to  see  them  bleed. 

Queen.  No,  no,  the  drink,  the  drink,— O  my  dear  Hamlet ! — 
The  drink,  the  drink  ; — I  am  poison'd  !  [Dies. 

Ham.  O  villany  ! — Ho  !  let  the  door  be  lock'd  : 
Treachery  !  seek  it  out.  [LAERTES  falls. 

Laer.  It  is  here,  Hamlet :  Hamlet,  thou  art  slain ; 
No  medicine  in  the  world  can  do  thee  good  ; 
In  thee  there  is  not  half  an  hour's  life  ; 
The  treacherous  instrument  is  in  thy  hand, 
Unbated,  and  envenom'd  :  the  foul  practice 
Hath  turn'd  itself  on  me  ;  lo,  here  I  lie, 
Never  to  rise  again  :  Thy  mother's  poison'd ; 
I  can  no  more  ;  the  king,  the  king's  to  blame. 

Ham.  The  point 

Envenom'd  too  ! — Then,  venom,  to  thy  work.  [Stabs  the  KINO. 

Follow  my  mother. 

Laer.  He  is  justly  serv'd ; 

It  is  a  poison  temper'd  by  himself. — 
Exchange  forgiveness  with  me,  noble  Hamlet : 
Mine  and  my  father's  death  come  not  upon  thee  ; 
Nor  thine  on  me  !  [Diet 

Ham.  Heaven  make  thee  free  of  it !     I  follow  thee. 
You  that  look  pale  and  tremble  at  this  chance, 
That  are  but  mutes  or  audience  to  this  act, 
Had  I  but  time,  (as  this  fell  sergeant,  death, 
Is  strict  in  his  arrest,)  O,  I  could  tell  you, — 
But  let  it  be : — Horatio,  I  am  dead  ; 
Thou  liv'st ;  report  me  and  my  cause  aright 
To  the  unsatisfied. 

Hor.  Never  believe  it ; 


52  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

I  am  more  an  antique  Roman  than  a  Dane, 
Here's  yet  some  liquor  left. 

Ham.  As  thou'rt  a  man, — 

Give  me  the  cup  ;  let  go ;  by  heaven  I'll  have  it. — 
O  Heaven  ! — Horatio,  what  a  wounded  name, 
Things  standing  thus  unknown,  shall  live  behind  me  ! 
If  thou  didst  ever  hold  me  in  thy  heart, 
Absent  thee  from  felicity  awhile, 
And  in  this  harsh  world  draw  thy  breath  in  pain, 
To  tell  my  story. — 0, 1  die,  Horatio  ; 
The  potent  poison  quite  o'er-crows  my  spirit ; 
The  rest  is  silence.  . 

Her.  Now  cracks  a  noble  heart ; — Good-night,  sweet  prinrjft ; 
And  flights  of  angels  sing  thee  to  thy  rest ! 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 


VARIOUS  sources  have  be  assigned,  from  which  Shakspeare  borrowed  1.0  story  of 
%i>  comedy ;  Orlando  Furioso,  The  Faery  Queen,  and  a  novel  of  Bandello's,  li.iv* 
.*ch  been  cited  as  furnishing  the  original  conception  of  the  plot.  It  is  perhaps  of  little 
Consequence  whence  the  poet  drew  his  materials :  the  play  itself  is  so  full  of  life  and 
sharacter,  so  teeming  with  wit,  poetry,  and  humor,  as  to  retr^r  the  mere  superstructure 
OB  which  the  incidents  are  founded  a  matter  of  no  account  to  ilia  general  reader. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 

Don  PEDRO,  Prince  of  Arragon. 

Don  JOHN,  his  illegitimate  brother. 

CLAUDIO,  a  young  lord  of  Florence,  favorite  to  Don  Pedro. 

BENEDICK,  a  young  lord  of  Padua,  favorite  likewise  to  Don  Pedro 

LEONATO,  governor  of  Messina. 

ANTONIO,  his  brother. 

BALTHAZAR,  servant  to  Don  Pedro. 

BORACHIO,  CONRADE,  followers  of  Don  John. 

DOGBERRY,  VERGES,  two  foolish  officers. 

A  Sexton,  A  Friar,  A  Boy. 

HERO,  daughter  to  Leonato. 
BEATRICE,  niece  to  Leonato. 

MARGARET,  URSULA,  gentlewomen  attending  on  Heio. 
MessengersJVatch,  and  Attendants. 
SCENE,— MESSINA 


ACT    I. 

SCENE  I.— Before  Leonato's  House. 

Enter  LEONATO,  HERO,  BEATRICE,  and  others,  with  a  M3ssenger. 
Leon.  I  learn  in  this  letter,  that  Don  Pedro  of  Arragon  comes  this 
niyht  to  Messina. 


54  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Mess.  He  is  very  near  by  this ;  he  was  not  three  leagues  off  when 
I  left  him. 

Leon.  How  many  gentlemen  have  you  lost  in  this  action  ? 

Mess.  But  few  of  any  sort,  and  none  of  name. 

Leon.  A  victory  is  twice  itself,  when  the  achiever  brings  home 
full  numbers.  I  find  here,  that  Don  Pedro  hath  bestowed  much 
nonor  on  a  young  Florentine,  called  Claudio. 

Mess.  Much  deserved  on  his  part,  and  equally  remembered  by 
Don  Pedro :  He  hath  borne  himself  beyond  the  promise  of  his  age  ; 
doing,  in  the  figure  of-  a  lamb,  the  feats  of  a  lion :  he  hath,  indeed, 
better  bettered  expectation,  than  you  must  expect  of  me  to  tell  you 
how. 

Leon.  He  hath  an  uncle  here  in  Messina  will  be  very  much  glad 
of  it. 

Mess.  I  have  already  delivered  him  letters  and  there  appears 
much  joy  in  him ;  even  so  much,  that  joy  could  not  show  itself 
modest  enough,  without  a  badge  of  bitterness. 

Leon.  Did  he  break  out  into  tears  ? 

Mess.  In  great  measure. 

Leon.  A  kind  overflow  of  kindness :  There  are  no  faces  truer 
than  those  that  are  so  washed.  How  much  better  is  it  to  weep  at 
joy,  than  to  joy  at  weeping  ? 

Beat.  I  pray  you,  is  signior  Montanto  returned  from  the  wars, 
or  no  ? 

Mess.  I  know  none  of  that  name,  lady  ;  there  was  none  such  in 
the  army  of  any  sort. 

Leon.  What  is  he  that  you  ask  for,  niece  ? 

Hero.  My  cousin  means  signior  Benedick  of  Padua. 

Mess.  O,  he  is  returned,  and  as  pleasant  as  ever  he  was. 

Beat.  I  pray  you,  how  many  hath  he  killed  and  eaten  in  these 
wars  ?  But  how  many  hath  he  killed  ?  for,  indeed,  I  promised  to 
eat  all  of  his  killing. 

Leon.  Faith,  niece,  you  tax  signior  Benedick  too  much  ;  but  he'll 
be  meet  with  you,  I  doubt  it  not. 

Mess.  He  hath  done  good  service,  lady,  in  these  wars. 

Beat.  You  had  musty  victual,  and  he  hath  holp  to  eat  it :  he  is  a , 
very  valiant  trencher-man,  \ie  hath  an  excellent  stomach. 

Mess.  And  a  good  soldier  too,  lady. 

Beat.  And  a  good  soldier  to  a  lady  ; — But  what  is  he  to  a  lord  ? 

Mess.  A  lord  to  a  lord,  a  man  to  a  man  ;  stuffed  with  all  honor- 
able virtues. 

Beat.  It  is  so,  indeed  :  he  is  no  less  than  a  stuffed  man  :  but  for 
the  stuffing, — Well,  we  are  all  mortal. 

Leon.  You  must  not,  sir,  mistake  my  niece :  there  is  a  kind  of 
merry  war  betwixt  signior  Benedick  and  her :  they  never  meet,  but 
there  is  a  skirmish  of  wit  between  them. 

Beat.  Alas,  he  gets  nothing  by  that.  In  our  last  conflict,  four  of 
his  five  wits  went  halting  off,  and  DW  is  the  old  man  governed  with 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  55 

one  :  so  that  if  he  have  wit  enough  to  keep  himself  warm,  tet  him 
bear  it  for  a  difference  between  himself  and  his  horse ;  for  it  is  all 
the  wealth  that  he  hath  left,  to  be  known  a  reasonable  creature.—- 
Who  is  his  companion  now  ?  He  hath  every  month  a  new  sworn 
brother. 

Mess.  Is  it  possible  ? 

Beat.  Very  easily  possible  :  he  wears  his  faith  but  as  the  fashion 
of  his  hat,  it  ever  changes  with  the  next  block. 

Mess.  I  see,  lady,  the  gentleman  is  not  in  your  books. 

Beat.  No  :  an  he  were,  I  would  burn  my  study.  But,  I  pray  you, 
who  is  his  companion  ? 

Mess.  He  is  most  in  the  company  of  the  right  noble  Claudio. 

Beat.  O !  he  will  hang  upon  him  like  a  disease :  he  is  sooner 
caught  than  the  pestilence :  and  the  taker  runs  presently  mad. 
Heaven  help  the  noble  Claudio  !  if  he  have  csught  the  Benedick,  it 
will  cost  him  a  thousand  pound  ere  he  be  cured. 

Mess.  I  will  hold  friends  with  you,  lady. 

Beat.  Do,  good  friend. 

Leon.  You  will  never  run  mad,  niece. 

Beat.  No,  not  till  a  hot  January. 

Mess.  Don  Pedro  is  approached. 

Enter  Don  PEDRO,  attended  by  BALTHAZAR  and  others,  Don  JOHN, 
CLAUDIO,  and  BENEDICK. 

D.  Pedro.  Good  signior  Leonato,  you  are  come  to  meet  your 
trouble :  the  fashion  of  the  world  is  to  avoid  cost,  and  you  en- 
counter it. 

Leon.  Never  came  trouble  to  my  house  in  the  likeness  of  your 
grace ;  for  trouble  being  gone,  comfort  should  remain ;  but  when 
you  depart  from  me,  sorrow  abides,  and  happiness  takes  his  leave. 

D.  Pedro.  You  embrace  your  charge  too  willingly. — I  think,  this 
is  your  daughter. 

Leon.  Her  mother  hath  many  times  told  me  so. 

D.  Pedro.  Be  happy,  lady,  for  you  are  like  an  honorable  father. 

Bene.  If  signior  Leonato  be  her  father,  she  would  not  have  hia 
head  on  her  shoulders,  for  all  Messina,  as  like  him  as  she  is. 

Beat.  I  wonder  that  you  will  still  be  talking,  signior  Benedick; 
nobody  marks  you. 

Bene.  What,  my  dear  lady  Disdain  !  are  you  yet  living  ? 

Beat.  Is  it  possible,  disdain  should  die,  while  she  hath  such  meet 
food  to  feed  it,  as  signior  Benedick  ?  Courtesy  itself  must  convert 
to  disdain,  if  you  come  in  her  presence. 

Bene.  Then  is  courtesy  a  turn-coat : — But  it  is  certain,!  am  loved 
of  all  ladies,  only  you  excepted  :  and  I  would  I  could  find  in  my  heart 
that  I  had  not  a  hard  heart :  for,  truly,  I  love  none. 

Beat.  A  dear  happiness  to  woman ;  they  would  else  have  beon 
troubled  with  a  pernicious  suitor.  I  had  rather  hear  my  dog  bark  at 
a  crow,  than  a  man  swear  he  loves  me. 


56  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Bene.  Heaven  keep  your  ladyship  still  in  that  mind !  so  some  gen- 
tleman or  other  shall  'scape  a  predestinate  scratched  face. 

Beat.  Scratching  could  not  make  it  worse,  an  'twere  such  a  faci- 
as yours  were. 

Bene.  Well,  you  are  a  rare  parrot-teacher. 

Beat.  A  bird  of  my  tongue,  is  better  than  a  beast  of  yours. 

Bene.  I  would,  my  horse  had  the  speed  of  your  tongue ;  and  so 
good  a  continuer:  But  keep  your  way ;  I  have  done. 

Beat.  You  always  end  with  a  jade's  trick  ;  I  know  you  of  old. 

D.  Pedro.  This  is  the  sum  of  all : — Leonato, — signior  Claudio,  and 
signior  Benedick, — my  dear  friend  Leonato  hath  invited  you  all.  I 
tell  him,  we  shall  stay  here  at  the  least  a  month ;  and  he  heartily 
prays  some  occasion  may  detain  us  longer :  I  dare  swear  he  is  no 
hypocrite,  but  prays  from  his  heart. 

Leon.  If  you  swear,  my  lord,  you  shall  not  be  forsworn. — Let  me 
bid  you  welcome,  my  lord:  being  reconciled  to  the  prince  your 
brother,  I  owe  you  all  duty. 

D.  John.  I  thank  you :  I  am  not  of  many  words,  but  I  thank  you. 

Leon.  Please  it  your  grace  lead  on  ? 

D.  Pedro.  Your  hand,  Leonato ;  we  will  go  together. 

[Exeunt  all  but  BENEDICK  and  CLAUDIO. 

Claud.  Benedick,  didst  thou  note  the  daughter  of  signior  Leonato  ? 

Bene.  I  noted  her  not :  but  I  looked  on  her. 

Claud.  Is  she  not  a  modest  young  lady  ? 

Bene.  Do  you  question  me  as  an  honest  man  should  do,  for  my 
simple  true  judgment ;  or  would  you  have  me  speak  after  my  cus- 
tom, as  being  a  professed  tyrant  to  their  sex  ? 

Claud.  No,  I  pray  thee,  speak  in  sober  judgment. 

Bene.  Why,  i'  faith,  methinks  she  is  too  low  for  a  high  praise,  too 
brown  for  a  fair  praise,  and  too  little  for  a  great  praise :  only  this 
commendation  I  can  afford  her ;  that  were  she  other  than  she  is,  she 
were  unhandsome ;  and  being  no  other  but  as  she  is,  I  do  not  like 
her. 

Claud.  Thou  thinkest  I  am  in  sport ;  I  pray  thee,  tell  me  truly 
how  thou  likest  her  ? 

Bene.  Would  you  buy  her,  that  you  inquire  after  her  ?    . 

Claud.  Can  the  world  buy  such  a  jewel  ? 

Bene.  Yea,  and  a  case  to  put  it  into.  But  speak  you  this  with  a 
sad  brow  ?  or  do  you  play  the  flouting  jack ;  to  tell  us  Cupid  is  a 
good  hare-finder,  and  Vulcan  a  rare  carpenter  ?  Come,  in  what  key 
shall  a  man  take  you,  to  go  in  the  song  ? 

Claud.  In  mine  eye,  she  is  the  sweetest  lady  that  ever  I  looked 
en. 

Bene.  I  can  see  yet  without  spectacles,  and  I  see  no  such  matter : 
there's  her  cousin,  an  she  were  not  possessad  with  a  fury,  exceeds 
her  as  much  in  beauty,  as  the  first  of  May  doth  the  last  of  December. 
But  1  hope,  you  have  no  intent  to  turn  husband ;  have  you  ? 

Claud.  I  would  scarce  trust  myself,  though  I  had  sworn  the  con- 
trary, if  Hero  would  be  my  wife. 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  57 

Bene.  Is  it  come  to  this,  i'  faith  ?  Hath  not  the  world  one  man, 
but  he  will  wear  his  cap  with  suspicion  ?  Shall  I  never  see  a  bache- 
lor of  three-score  again  ?  Go  to,  i'  faith  :  an  thou  wilt  needs  thrust 
thy  neck  into  a  yoke,  wear  the  print  of  it,  and  sigh  away  Sundays. 
Look,  Don  Pedro  is  returned  to  seek  you. 

Re-enter  DON  PEDRO. 

D.  Pedro.  What  secret  hath  held  you  here,  that  you  followed  not 
to  Leonato's  ? 

Bene.  I  would,  your  grace  would  constrain  me  to  tell. 

D.  Pedro.  I  charge  thee  on  thy  allegiance. 

Bene.  You  hear,  count  Claudio :  I  can  be  secret  as  a  dumb  man, 
I  would  have  you  think  so;  but  on  my  allegiance, — mark  you  this, 
on  my  allegiance  : — He  is  in  love.  With  who  ? — now  that  is  your 
grace's  part. — Mark,  how  short  his  answer  is  :  With  Hero,  Leonato's 
short  daughter. 

Claud.  If  this  were  so,  so  were  it  uttered. 

Bene.  Like  the  old  tale,  my  lord  :  "  it  is  not  so,  nor  'twas  not  so : 
but,  indeed,  Heaven  forbid  it  should  be  so." 

Claud.  If  my  passion  change  not  shortly,  Heaven  forbid  it  should 
be  otherwise. 

D.  Pedro.  Amen,  if  you  love  her ;  for  the  lady  is  very  well 
worthy. 

Claud.  You  speak  this  to  fetch  me  in,  my  lord. 

D.  Pedro.  By  my  troth,  I  speak  my  thought. 

Claud.  And,  in  faith,  my  lord,  I  spoke  mine. 

Bene.  And,  by  my  two  faiths  and  troths,  my  lord,  I  spoke  mine. 

Claud.  That  I  love  her,  I  feel. 

D.  Pedro.  That  she  is  worthy,  I  know. 

Bene.  That  I  neither  feel  how  she  should  be  loved,  nor  know  how 
she  should  be  worthy,  is  the  opinion  that  fire  cannot  melt  out  of  me ; 
I  will  die  in  it  at  the  stake. 

D.  Pedro.  Thou  wast  ever  an  obstinate  heretic  in  the  despite  of 
beauty. 

Claud.  And  never  could  maintain  his  part,  but  in  the  force  of  his 
will. 

Bene.  Because  I  will  not  do  them  the  wrong  to  mistrust  any 
woman,  I  will  do  myself  the  right  to  trust  none  ;  and  the  fine  is,  (for 
the  which  I  may  go  the  finer,)  I  will  live  a  bachelor. 

D.  Pedro.  I  shall  see  thee,  ere  I  die,  look  pale  with  love. 

Bene.  With  anger,  with  sickness,  or  with  hunger,  my  lord ;  not 
with  love  :  prove,  that  ever  I  lose  more  blood  with  love,  than  I  will 
get  again  with  drinking,  pick  out  mine  eyes  with  a  ballad-maker's 
pen,  and  hang  me  up  for  the  sign  of  blind  Cupid. 

D.  Pedro.  Well,  if  ever  thou  dost  fall  from  this  faith,  thou  wilt 
prove  a  notable  argument. 

Bene.  If  I  do,  hang  me  in  a  bottle  like  a  cut,  and  shoot  at  me ;  and1 
He  that  hits  me,  let  him  be  clapped  on  the  shoulder,  and  called  Adam, 


58  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

D.  Pedro.  Well,  as  time  shall  try : 

In  time  the  savage  bull  doth  bear  the  yoke. 

Bene.  The  savage  bull  may ;  but  if  ever  the  sensible  Benedict 
bear  it,  pluck  off  the  bull's  horns,  and  set  them  in  my  forehead :  and 
*et  me  be  vilely  painted ;  and  in  such  great  letters  as  they  write,  Here  is 
good  horse  to  hire,  let  them  signify  under  my  sign, — Here  you  may  see 
Benedick,  the  married  man. 

Claud.  If  this  should  ever  happen,  thou  would'st  be  horn-mad. 

D.  Pedro.  Nay,  if  Cupid  have  not  spent  all  his  quiver  in  Venice, 
thou  wilt  quake  for  this  shortly. 

Bene.  I  look  for  an  earthquake  too  then. 

D.  Pedro.  Well,  you  will  temporize  \\ith  the  hours.  In  the 
meantime,  good  signior  Benedick,  repair  to  Leonato's ;  commend  me 
to  him,  and  tell  him,  I  will  not  fail  him  at  supper ;  for,  indeed,  he 
hath  made  great  preparation. 

Bene.  I  have  almost  matter  enough  in  me  for  such  an  embassage  ; 
and  so  I  commit  you — 

Claud.  To  the  tuition  of  Heaven :  From  my  house,  (if  I  had  it)— 

D.  Pedro.  The  sixth  of  July  :  Your  loving  friend,  Benedick. 

Bene.  Nay,  mock  not,  mock  not :  The  body  of  your  discourse  is 
sometime  guarded  with  fragments,  and  the  guards  are  but  slightly 
basted  on  neither :  ere  you  flout  old  ends  any  further,  examine  youi 
conscience  ;  and  so  I  leave  you.  {Exit  BENEDICK. 

Claud.  My  liege,  your  highness  now  may  do  me  good. 

D.  Pedro.  My  love  is  thine  to  teach ;  teach  it  but  how, 
And  thou  shalt  see  how  apt  it  is  to  learn 
Any  hard  lesson  that  may  do  thee  good. 

Claud.  Hath  Leonato  any  son,  my  lord  ? 

D.  Pedro.  No  child  but  Hero,  she's  his  only  heir : 
Dost  thou  affect  her,  Claudio  ? 

Claud.  O  my  lord, 

When  you  went  onward  on  this  ended  action, 
I  look'd  upon  her  with  a  soldier's  eye, 
That  lik'd,  but  had  a  rougher  task  in  hand 
Than  to  drive  liking  to  the  name  of  love ; 
But  now  I  am  return'd,  and  that  war-thoughts 
Have  left  their  places  vacant,  in  their  rooms 
Come  thronging  soft  and  delicate  desires, 
All  prompting  me  how  fair  young  Hero  is, 
Saying,  I  lik'd  her  ere  I  went  to  wars. 

D.  Pedro.  Thou  wilt  be  like  a  lover  presently 
And  tire  the  hearer  with  a  book  of  words  : 
If  thou  dost  love  fair  Hero,  cherish  it ; 
And  I  will  break  with  her,  and  with  her  father, 
And  thou  shalt  have  her :  Was't  not  to  this  end, 
That  thou  began'st  to  twist  so  fine  a  story  ? 

Claud.  How  sweetly  do  you  minister  to  love, 
That  know  love's  grief  by  his  cort  plexion ! 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  59 

But  lest  my  liking  might  too  sudden  seem, 
I  would  have  salv'd  it  with  a  longer  treatise. 

D.  Pedro.  What  need  the  bridge  much  broader  than  the  flood  ? 
The  fairest  grant  is  the  necessity : 
Look,  what  will  serve,  is  fit :  'tis  once,  thou  lov'st ; 
And  I  will  fit  thee  with  the  remedy. 
I  know,  we  shall  have  revelling  to-night ; 
[  will  assume  thy  part  in  some  disguise, 
And  tell  fair  Hero  I  am  Claudio ; 
And  in  her  bosom  I'll  unclasp  my  heart, 
And  *ake  her  hearing  prisoner  with  the  force 
Vnd  strong  encounter  of  my  amorous  tale : 
Then,  after,  to  her  father  will  I  break ; 
And  ti.e  conclusion  is,  she  shall  be  thine :    • 
tn  practice  lot  us  put  it  presently.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  I.— A  Hall  in  Leonato's  House. 
Enter  LEONATO,  ANTONIO,  HERO,  BEATRICE,  and  others. 

Leon.  Was  not  count  John  here  at  supper  ? 

Ant.  I  saw  him  not. 

Beat.  How  tartly  that  gentleman  looks  !  I  never  can  see  him,  but 
I  am  heart-burned  an  hour  after. 

Hero.  He  is  of  a  very  melancholy  disposition. 

Beat.  He  were  an  excellent  man,  that  were  made  just  in  the  mid- 
way between  him  and  Benedick ;  the  one  is  too  like  an  image,  and 
says  nothing ;  and  the  other,  too  like  my  lady's  eldest  son,  evermore 
tattling. 

Leon.  Then  half  signior  Benedick's  tongue  in  count  John's  mouth, 
and  half  count  John's  melancholy  in  signior  Benedick's  face, — 

Beat.  With  a  good  leg,  and  a  good  foot,  uncle,  and  money  enough 
in  his  purse,  such  a  man  would  win  any  woman  in  the  world, — if  he 
could  get  her  good  will. 

Leon.  By  my  troth,  niece,  thou  wilt  never  get  thee  a  husband,  if 
thou  be  so  shrewd  of  thy  tongue. 

Ant.  Well,  niece,  [to  HERO,]  I  trust  you  will  be  ruled  by  yom 
father. 

Beat.  Yes,  faith ;  it's  my  cousin's  duty  to  make  courtesy,  and  say, 
Father,  as  i,  please  you : — but  yet  for  all  that,  co.usin,  let  him  be  a 
handsome  fellow,  or  else  make  another  courtesy,  and  say,  Father,  as 
it  please  me. 

Leon.  Well,  niece,  I  hope  to  see  you  one  day  fitted  with  a  hus- 
band. 

Beat.  Not  till  men  are  made  of  some  other  metal  than  earth. 
Would  it  not  grieve  a  woman  to  be  over-mastered  with  a  piece  of 
valiant  dust  ?  to  make  an  account  of  her  life  to  a  clod  of  wayward 


60  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

marl  ?  No,  uncle,  I'll  hold  none.  Adam's  sons  are  my  brethren  ;  and 
truly,  I  hold  it  a  sin  to  match  in  my  kindred. 

Leon.  Daughter,  remember  what  I  told  you  :  if  the  prince  do 
solicit  you  in  that  kind,  you  know  your  answer. 

Beat.  The  fault  will  be  in  the  music,  cousin,  if  you  be  not  woo'd 
in  good  time :  if  the  prince  be  too  important,  tell  him,  there  is  measure 
in  every  thing,  and  so  dance  out  the  answer.  For  hear  me,  Hero  ; 
wooing,  wedding,  and  repenting,  is  as  a  Scotch  jig,  a  measure,  and  a 
cinque-pace  :  the  first  suit  is  hot  and  hasty,  like  a  Scotch  jig,  and  full 
as  fantastical ;  the  wedding,  mannerly-modest,  as  a  measure  full  of 
state  and  ancientry  ;  and  then  comes  repentance,  and,  with  his  bad 
legs,  falls  into  the  cinque-pace  faster  and  faster,  till  he  sink  into  his 
grave. 

Leon.  Cousin,  you  apprehend  passing  shrewdly. 

Beat.  I  have  a  good  eye,  uncle,  I  can  see  a  church  by  daylight. 

Leon.  The  revellers  are  entering ;  brother,  make  good  room. 

The  Plot  arranged  by  Don  Pedro,  is  carried  into  execution  at  the  masked  Ball  given 
by  Leonato.  The  Prince  disguised  as  Claudio,  wooes  Hero,  and  obtains  confession  of  hei 
ove.  He  also  breaks  the  matter  to  Leonato,  who  cheerfully  consents  to  the  union  of  his 
daughter  with  Claudio. 

Don  Pedro,  Leonato,  Claudio,  and  Hero,  now  undertake  to  bring  Beaedick  and 
Beatrice  '  into  a  mountain  of  affection.  '  — Their  plans  are  carried  out  in  the  two  follow- 
ing s«»nes. 

SCENE  III.— Leonato's  Garden. 
Enter  BENEDICK  and  a  Boy. 

Bene.  Boy, — 

Boy.  Signior. 

Bene.  In  my  chamber-window  lies  a  book ;  bring  it  hither  to  me  ir 
the  orchard. 

Boy.  I  am  here  already,  sin. 

Bene.  I  know  that ; — but  I  would  have  thee  hence,  and  here  again. 
[Exit  Boy.] — I  do  much  wonder,  that  one  man,  seeing  how  much 
another  man  is  a  fool  when  he  dedicates  his  behaviors  to  love,  will, 
after  he  hath  laughed  at  such  shallow  follies  in  others,  become  the 
argument  of  his  own  scorn,  by  falling  in  love  :  And  such  a  man  is 
Claudio.  I  have  known  when  there  was  no  music  with  him  but  the 
drum  and  fife  ;  and  now  had  he  rather  hear  the  tabor  and  the  pipe '. 
I  have  known,  when  he  would  have  walked  ten  mile  afoot,  to  see  a 
good  armor ;  and  now  will  he  lie  ten  nights  awake,  carving  the  fashion 
of  a  new  doublet...  He  was  wont  to  speak  plain,  and  to  the  purpose, 
like  an  honest  man,  and  a  soldier ;  and  now  is  he  turn'd  orthographer , 
his  words  are  a  very  fantastical  banquet,  just  so  many  strange  dishes. 
May  I  be  so  converted,  and  see  with  these  eyes  ?  I  cannot  tell ;  1 
think  not :  I  will  not  be  sworn,  but  love  may  transform  me  to  an 
oyster  ;  but  I'll  take  my  oath  on  it,  till  he  hath  made  an  oyster  of  me, 
he  shall  never  make  me  such  a  fool.  One  woman  is  fair ;  yet  I  am 
well :  another  is  wise ;  yet  I  am  well :  another  virtuous ;  yet  I  am 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING,  Gl 

well :  but  till  all  graces  be  in  one  woman,  one  woman  shall  not  come 
in  niy  grace.  Rich,  she  shall  be,  that's  certain  ;  wise,  or  I'll  none  ; 
virtuous,  or  I'll  never  cheapen  her ;  fair,  or  I'll  never  look  on  her  ; 
mild,  or  come  not  near  me ;  noble,  or  not  I  for  an  angel ;  of  good 
discourse,  an  excellent  musician,  and  her  hair  shall  be  of  what  color 
it  please.  Ha !  the  prince  and  monsieur  Love  !  I  will  hide  me  in 
the  arbor.  [  Withdraws. 

Enter  DON  PEDRO,  LEONATO,  and  CLAUZIO. 

D.  Pedro.  Come,  shall  we  hear  this  music  ? 

Claud.  Yea,  my  good  lord : — How  still  the  evening  is, 
As  hush'd  on  purpose  to  grace  harmony  ! 

D.  Pedro.  See  you  where  Benedick  hath  hid  himself  ? 

Claud.  O,  very  well,  my  lord :  the  music  ended, 
We'll  fit  the  kid  fox  with  a  pennyworth. 

Enter  BALTHAZAR,  with  music. 

D.  Pedro.  Come  Balthazar,  we'll  hear  that  song  again. 

BaWi.  O  good  my  lord,  tax  not  so  bad  a  voice 
To  slander  music  any  more  than  once. 

D.  Pedro.  It  is  the  witness  still  of  excellency, 
To  put  a  strange  face  on  his  own  perfection : — 
I  pray  thee,  sing,  and  let  me  woo  no  more. 

Balth.  Because  you  talk  of  wooing,  I  will  sing  : 
Since  many  a  wooer  doth  commence  his  suit 
To  her  he  thinks  not  worthy  ;  yet  he  wooes  ; 
Yet  he  will  swear,  he  loves. 

D.  Pedro.  Nay,  pray  thee,  come : 

Or,  if  thou  wilt  hold  longer  argument, 
Do  it  in  notes. 

Balth.  Note  this  before  my  notes, 

There's  not  a  note  of  mine  that's  worth  .the  noting. 

D.  Pedro.  Why  these  are  very  crotchets  that  he  speaks  ; 
Note,  notes,  forsooth,  and  noting  !  [Musis. 

Bene.  Now,  Divine  air !  now  is  his  soul  ravished  ! 

BALTHAZAR  sings. 

I.     Sigh  no  more,  ladies,  sigh,  no  more  ; 

Men  were  deceivers  ever ; 
One  foot  in  sea,  and  one  on  shore; 
To  one  thing  constant  never: 
Then  sigh  not  so, 
But  let  them  go, 
And  be  you  blithe  and  bonny  ; 
Converting  all  your  sounds  of  woe 

Into,  Hey  nonny,  nonny. 
II.     Sing  no  more  ditties,  sing  no  mo 
Of  dumps  so  dull  and  heavy ; 


62  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

The  fraud  of  men  was  ever  so, 
Since  summer  first  was  leavy. 
Then  sigh  not  so,  &c.  * 

D.  Pedro.  By  my  t)  oth,  a  good  song. 

Balth.  And  an  ill  si.iger,  my  lord. 

Claud.  Ha  ?  no ,  no,  faith  ;  thou  singest  well  enough  for  a  snift.. 

Bene.  [Aside.] — An  he  had  been  a  dog,  that  should  have  howled 
Jius,  they  would  have  hanged  him  :  and,  I  pray  Heaven  his  bad 
voice  bode  no  mischief !  I  had  as  lief  have  heard  the  night  raven, 
come  what  plague  could  have  come  after  it. 

D.  Pedro.  Yea,  marry ;  [to  CLAUDIO.] — Dost  thou  hear,  Baltha- 
zar ?  I  pray  thee,  get  us  some  excellent  music ;  for  to-morrow 
night  we  would  have  it  at  the  lady  Hero's  chamber-window. 

Balth.  The  best  I  can,  my  lord. 

D.  Pedro.  Do  so :  farewell.  [Exeunt  BALTHAZAR  and  music.] 
Come  hither,  Leonato :  What  was  it  you  told  me  of  to-day  ?  that 
your  niece  Beatrice  was  in  love  with  signior  Benedick  ? 

Claud.  O,  ay : — Stalk  on,  stalk  on :  the  fowl  sits.  [Aside  to 
PEDRO.] — I  did  never  think  that  lady  would  have  loved  any  man. 

Leon.  No,  nor  I  neither ;  but  most  wonderful,  that  she  should  so 
dote  on  signior  Benedick,  whom  she  hath  in  all  outward  behavior? 
seemed  ever  to  abhor. 

Bene.  Is't  possible  ?     Sits  the  wind  in  that  corner  ?  [Aside. 

Leon.  By  my  troth,  my  lord,  I  cannot  tell  what  to  think  of  it ;  but 
that  she  loves  him  with  an  enraged  affection, — it  is  past  the  infinite 
of  thought. 

D.  Pedro.  May  be,  she  d$th  but  counterfeit. 

Claud.  'Faith,  like  enough. 

Leon.  Counterfeit !  There  never  was  counterfeit  of  passion  came 
»o  near  the  life  of  passion,  as  she  discovers  it. 

D.  Pedro.  Why,  what  effects  of  passion  shows  she  ? 

Claud.  Bait  the  hook  well ;  this  fish  will  bite.  [Aside, 

Leon.  What  effects,  my  lord  !     She  will  sit  you, — 
You  heard  my  daughter  tell  you  how. 

Claud.  She  did,  indeed. 

D.  Pedro.  How,  how,  I  pray  you  ?  You  amaze  me :  I  would 
have  thought  her  spirit  had  been  invincible  against  all  assaults  of 
affection. 

Leon.  I  would  have  sworn  it  had,  my  lord;  especially  against 
Benedick. 

Bene.  [Aside.] — I  should  think  this  a  gull,  but  that  the  white- 
bearded  fellow  speaks  it ;  knavery  cannot,  sure,  hide  itself  in  such 
reverence. 

Claud.  He  hath  ta'en  the  infection  ;  hold  it  up.  [Aside. 

D.  Pedro.  Hath  she  made  her  affection  known  to  Benedick  ? 

Leon.  No ;  and  swears  she  never  will :  that's  her  torment. 
Claud.  Tis  true,  indeed ;  so  your  daughter  says  :  Shall  /,  says 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  63 

she,  that  have  so  oft  encountered  him  with  scorn,  write  to  him  thai  1 
love  him  ? 

Leon.  This  says  she  now  when  she  is  beginning  to  write  to  him  : 
for  she'll  be  up  twenty  times  a  night :  and  there  will  she  sit  till  she 
have  writ  a  sheet  of  paper : — my  daughter  tells  us  all.  Then  she 
will  tear  the  letter  into  a  thousand  half-pence ;  rail  at  herself,  that 
she  should  write  to  one  that  she  knew  would  flout  her :  /  measure 
him,  says  she,  by  my  own  spirit ;  for  I  would  flout  him,  if  he  writ  to 
me ;  yea,  thmgh  I  love  him,  I  should. 

Claud.  Then  down  upon  her  knees  she  falls,  weeps,  sobs,  beats 
her  heart,  tears  her  hair,  prays,  curses ; — O  sweet  Benedick  ! 

Leon.  She  doth  indeed ;  my  daughter  says  so :  and  the  ecstasy 
hath  so  much  overborne  her,  that  my  daughter  is  sometimes  afraid 
she  will  do  a  desperate  outrage  to  herself :  It  is  very  true. 

D.  Pedro.  It  were  good,  that  Benedick  knew  of  it  by  some  other, 
if  she  will  not  discover  it. 

Claud.  To  what  end  ?  He  would  but  make  a  sport  of  it,  and 
torment  the  poor  lady  worse. 

D.  Pedro.  An  he  should,  it  were  an  alms  to  hang  him  :  She's  an 
excellent  sweet  lady ;  and,  out  of  all  suspicion,  she  is  virtuous. 

Claud.  And  she  is  exceeding  wise. 

D.  Pedro.  In  every  thing,  but  in  loving  Benedick. 

Leon.  I  am  sorry  for  her.  as  I  have  just  cause,  being  her  uncle 
and  her  guardian. 

D.  Pedro.  I  would  she  had  bestowed  this  dotage  on  me ;  I  would 
have  daff'd  all  other  respects,  and  made  her  half  myself:  I  pray  you, 
tell  Benedick  of  it,  and  hear  what  he  will  say. 

Leon.  Were  it  good,  think  you  ? 

Claud.  Hero  thinks  surely,  she  will  die ;  for  she  says,  she  will 
die  if  he  love  her  not ;  and  she  will  die  ere  she  makes  her  love 
known :  and  she  will  die  if  he  woo  her,  rather  than  she  will  'bate 
one  breadth  of  her  accustomed  crossness. 

D.  Pedro.  She  doth  well :  if  she  should  make  tender  of  her  love, 
'tis  very  possible  he'll  scorn  it :  for  the  man,  as  you  know  all,  hath  a 
contemptuous  spirit. 

Claud.  He  is  a  very  proper  man. 

D.  Pedro.  He  hath,  indeed,  a  good  outward  happiness. 

Claud.  And  in  my  mind,  very  wise. 

D.  Pedro.  He  doth,  indeed,  show  some  sparks  that  are  like  wit. 

Leon.  And  I  take  him  to  be  valiant. 

D.  Pedro.  As  Hector,  I  assure  you ;  and  in  the  managing  of 
quarrels  you  may  say  he  is  wise ;  for  either  he  avoids  them  with 
great  discretion,  or  undertakes  them  with  a  most  Christian-like 
fear.  Well,  I  am  sorry  for  your  niece  :  Shall  we  go  see  Benedick, 
and  tell  him  of  her  love  ? 

Claud.  Never  tell  him,  my  lord ;  let  her  wear  it  out  with  good 
tounsel. 

Leon.  Nay,  that's  impossible  ;  she  may  wear  her  heart  out  first. 


64  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

D.  Pedro.  Well,  we'll  hear  further  of  it  by  your  daugh  ,er  :  let  i- 
cool  the  while.  I  love  Benedick  well :  and  I  could  wish  he  would 
modestly  examine  himself  to  see  how  much  he  is  unworthy  so  good 
a  lady. 

Leon.  My  lord,  will  you  walk  ?  dinner  is  ready. 

Claud.  If  he  do  not  doat  on  her  upon  this,  I  will  never  trust  my 
expectation.  [Aside. 

D.  Pedro.  Let  there  be  the  same  net  spread  for  her :  and  that 
must  your  daughter,  and  her  gentlewoman  carry.  The  sport  will 
be,  when  they  hold  one  an  opinion  of  another's  dotage,  and  no  such 
matter ;  that's  the  scene  that  I  would  see,  which  will  be  merely  a 
dumb  show.  Let  us  send  her  to  call  him  to  dinner.  [Aside. 

[Exeunt  Don  PEDRO,  CLAUDIO,  and  LEONATO. 

BENEDICK  advances  from  the  arbor. 

Bene.  This  can  be  no  trick  :  The  conference  was  sadly  borne. — 
They  have  the  truth  of  this  from  Hero.  They  seem  to  pity  the 
lady  ;  it  seems,  her  affections  have  their  full  bent.  Love  me  !  why, 
it  must  be  requited.  I  hear  how  I  am  censured  :  they  say,  I  will 
bear  myself  proudly,  if  I  perceive  the  love  come  from  her ;  they  say 
too,  that  she  will  rather  die  than  give  any  sign  of  affection. — I  did 
never  think  to  marry — I  must  not  seem  proud : — Happy  are  they 
that  hear  their  detractions,  and  can  put  them  to  mending.  They 
say,  the  lady  is  fair ;  'tis  a  truth,  I  can  bear  them  witness  :  and  vir- 
tuous— 'tis  so,  I  cannot  reprove  it ;  and  wise,  but  for  loving  me  : — 
By  my  troth,  it  is  no  addition  to  her  wit ; — nor  no  great  argument 
of  her  folly,  for  1  will  be  horribly  in  love  with  her. — I  may  chance 
have  some  odd  quirks  and  remnants  of  wit  broken  on  me,  because  I 
have  railed  so  long  against  marriage :  But  doth  not  the  appetite 
alter  ?  A  man  loves  the  meat  in  his  youth,  that  he  cannot  endure 
in  his  age :  Shall  quips,  and  sentences,  and  these  paper  bullets  of  the 
brain,  awe  a  man  from  the  career  of  his  humor?  No:  When  I 
said,  I  would  die  a  bachelor,  I  did  not  think  I  should  live  till  I  were 
married. — Here  comes  Beatrice  :  By  this  day,  she's  a  fair  lady  :  I  do 
spy  some  marks  of  love  in  her. 

Enter  BEATRICE. 

Beat.  Against  my  will,  I  am  sent  to  bid  you  come  in  to  dinner. 

Bene.  Fair  Beatrice,  I  thank  you  for  your  pains. 

Beat.  I  took  no  more  pains  for  those  thanks,  than  you  take  pains 
to  thank  me ;  if  it  had  been  painful,  I  would  not  have  come. 

Bene.  You  take  pleasure  then  in  the  message  ? 

Beat.  Yea,  just  so  much  as  you  may  take  upon  a  knife's  point, 
and  choke  a  daw  withal : — You  have  no  stomach,  signior ;  fare  you 
well.  [Exit. 

Bene.  Ha  !  Against  my  will  I  am  sent  to  Ind  you  come  to  dinner 
—there's  a  double  meaning  in  that.  I  took  no  more  pains-  for  those 
thanks,  than  you  took  pains  to  tha?ik  me — that's  as  much  as  to  say, 
Any  pains  that  I  take  for  you  is  as  easy  as  thanks  : — If  I  do  not  take 
pity  of  her,  I  am  a  villain  ;  if  I  do  not  love  her,  I  am  a  Jew :  I  will 
go  2'pl  her  picture.  [Exit, 


MUCH    ADO    ABOUT    NOTHING.  6fi 

ACT  III. 

SCENE  I. — Leonato's  Garden. 
Enter  HERO,  MARGARET,  and  URSULA. 

Hero.  Good  Margaret,  ran  thee  into  the  parlor  ; 
There  thou  shalt  find  my  cousin  Beatrice 
Proposing  with  the  prince  and  Claudio : 
Whisper  her  ear,  and  tell  her,  I  and  Ursula 
Walk  in  the  orchard,  and  our  whole  discourse 
Is  all  of  her  ;  say,  that  thou  overheard'st  us  ; 
And  bid  her  steal  into  the  pleached  bower, 
Where  honeysuckles,  ripen'd  by  the  sun. 
Forbid  the  sun  to  enter  ; — like  favorites, 
Made  proud  by  princes,  that  advance  their  pride 
Against  that  power  that  bred  it : — there  will  she  hide  her, 
To  listen  our  purpose  :  This  is  thy  office, 
Bear  thee  weL  in  it,  and  leave  us  alone. 

Marg.  I'll  make  her  come,  I  warrant  you,  presently. 

Hero.  Now,  Ursula,  when  Beatrice  doth  come, 
As  we  do  trace  this  alley  up  and  down, 
Our  talk  must  only  be  of  Benedick  ; 
When  I  do  name  him,  let  it  be  thy  part 
To  praise  him  more  than  ever  man  did  merit : 
My  talk  to  thee  must  be,  how  Benedick 
Is  sick  in  love  with  Beatrice  :  Of  this  matte? 
Is  little  Cupid's  crafty  arrow  made, 
That  only  wounds  by  hear-say.     Now  begin ; 

Enter  BEATRICE,  behind. 
For  look  where  Beatrice,  like  a  lapwing,  runs 
Close  by  the  ground,  to  hear  our  conference. 

Urs.  The  pleasant'st  angling  is  to  see  the  fish 
Cut  with  her  golden  oars  the  silver  stream, 
And  greedily  devour  the  treacherous  bait : 
So  angle  we  for  Beatrice  ;  who  even  now 
Is  couched  in  the  woodbine  coverture  : 
Fear  you  not  my  part  of  the  dialogue. 

Hero.  Then  go  we  near  her,  that  her  ear  lose  nothing 
Of  the  false  sweet  bait  that  we  lay  for  it. — 

[  Tliey  advance  to  the  6 
No,  truly,  Ursula,  she  is  too  disdainful ; 
I  know,  her  spirits  are  as  coy  and  wild 
As  haggards*  of  the  rock. 

Urs.  But  are  you  sure 

That  Benedick  loves  Beatrice  so  entirely  ? 

Hero.  So  says  the  prince,  and  my  new-trothcd  lord. 

*  A  species  of  hawks. 


66  SHAKSPEARIAN    READE3. 

Urs,  And  did  they  bid  you  tell  her  of  it.  madam  I 

Hero.  They  did  entreat  me  to  acquaint  her  of  it : 
But  I  persuaded  them,  if  they  lov'd  Benedick, 
To  wish  him  wrestle  with  affection, 
And  never  to  let  Beatrice  know  of  1^. 

Urs.  Why  did  you  so  ? 

Hero.  Nature  never  framed  a  woman's  heart 
Of  prouder  stuff  than  that  of  Beatrice  : 
Disdain  and  scorn  ride  sparkling  in  her  eyes, 
Misprising  what  they  look  on ;  and  her  wit 
Values  itself  so  highly,  that  to  her 
All  matter  else  seems  weak  :  she  cannot  love, 
Nor  take  no  shape  nor  project  of  affection, 
She  is  so  self-endeared. 

Urs.  Sure,  I  think  so ; 

And  therefore,  certainly,  it  were  not  good 
She  knew  his  love,  test  she  make  sport  at  it. 

Hero.  Why,  you  speak  truth  :  I  never  yet  saw  mas* 
How  wise,  how  noble,  young,  how  rarely  featur'd, 
But  she  would  spell  him  backward  :  if  fair-faced, 
She'd  swear,  the  gentleman  should  be  her  sister ; 
If  black,  why,  nature,  drawing  of  an  antic, 
Made  a  foul  blot :  if  tall,  a  lance  ill-headed  ; 
If  low,  an  agate  very  vilely  cut : 
If  speaking,  why,  a  vane  blown  with  all  winds  ; 
If  silent,  why,  a  block  moved  with  none. 
So  turns  she  every  man  the  wrong  side  out : 
And  never  gives  to  truth  and  virtue,  that 
Which  simpleness  and  merit  purchaseth. 

Urs.  Sure,  sure,  such  carping  is  not  commendable* 

Hero.  No  :  not  to  be  so  odd,  and  from  all  fashions, 
As  Beatrice  is,  cannot  be  commendable : 
But  who  dare  tell  her  so  ?     If  I  should  speak, 
She'd  mock  me  into  air ;  O,  she  would  laugh  me 
Out  of  myself,  press  me  to  death  with  wit. 
Therefore  let  Benedick,  like  cover'd  fire, 
Consume  away  in  sighs,  waste  inwardly : 
It  were  a  better  death  than  die  with  mocks. 

Urs.  Yet  tell  her  of  it ;  hear  what  she  will  say. 

Hero.  No ;  rather  I  will  go  to  Benedick, 
And  counsel  him  to  fight  against  his  passion  : 
And,  truly,  I'll  devise  some  honest  slanders 
To  stain  my  cousin  wifh  :  One  doth  not  know, 
How  much  an  ill  word  may  empoison  liking. 

Urs.  O,  do  not  do  your  cousin  such  a  wrong. 
She  cannot  be  so  much  without  true  judgment, 
(Having  so  swift  and  excellent  a  wit, 
As  she  is  priz'd  to  have,)  as  to  refuse 
So  rare  s.  ff  dtleman  as  signior  Benedick. 


MtfCH   ADO    ABOUT   NOTHING.  67 

Hero.  He  is  the  only  man  of  Italy, 
Always  excepted  my  dear  Claudio. 

Urs.  I  pray  you,  be  not  angry  with  me,  madam, 
Speaking  my  fancy  ;  signior  Benedick, 
For  shape,  for  bearing,  argument,  and  valor, 
GOPS  foremost  in  report  through  Italy. 

Hero.  Indeed,  he  hath  an  excellent  good  name. 

Urs.  His  excellence  did  earn  it,  ere  he  had  it. — 
When  are  you  married,  madam  ? 

Hero.  Why,  every  day ; — to-morrow :  Come,  go  in ; 
I'll  show  thee  some  attires ;  and  have  thy  counsel, 
Which  is  the  best  to  furnish  me  to-morrow. 

Urs.  She's  lim'd,  I  warrant  you  ;  we  have  caught  her,  madam. 

Hero.  If  it  proves  so,  then  loving  goes  by  haps : 
Some  Cupid  kills  with  arrows,  some  with  traps. 

[Exeunt  HERO  and  URSULI. 

BEATRICE  advances. 

Beat.  What  fire  is  in  my  ears  ?     Can  this  be  true  ? 

Stand  I  condemn'd  for  pride  and  scorn  so  much  ? 
Contempt,  farewell !  and  maiden  pride,  adieu  ! 

No  glory  lives  behind  the  back  of  such. 
And  Benedick,  love  on,  I  will  requite  thee  ; 

Taming  my  wild  heart  to  thy  loving  hand  ; 
If  thou  dost  love,  my  kindness  shall  incite  thee 

To  bind  our  loves  up  in  a  holy  band  : 
For  others  say,  thou  dost  deserve  ;  and  I 
Believe  it  better  than  reportingly.  [Exit. 

Beatrice  and  Benedick  are  successfully  played  upon,  and  a  mutual  affection  grows  op 
between  them. 

A  double  plot  is  now  developed.  Don  John,  brother  to  Pedro,  »n  envious,  dis- 
contented man,  is  jealous  of  Claudio's  interest  with  the  Prince,  and  deter-nines  to  revenge 
himself.  For  this  purpose  he  plans  with  his  servant,  Borachio,  to  throw  suspicion  on  the 
character  of  Hero.  Don  John  undertakes  to  place  the  Prince  and  Claudio  within  hearing, 
near  Hero's  chamber  window,  while  Borachio  addresses  Margaret,  Hero's  waiting  woman, 
by  the  name  of  her  mistress,  while  she  returns  the  greeting  most  familiarly. 

Borachio,  returning  from  this  interview,  meets  his  fellow  servant,  Conrade,  to  whom 
he  discloses  the  business  he  had  been  engaged  in.  They  are  overheard  by  the  city  watch, 
and  are  taken  in  custody. 

The  following  scene  introduces  one  of  Shakspeare's  most  celebrated  characters. 
Dogberry,  the  constable,  is  a  masterpiece  of  humor,— the  type  of  a  class,  the  ignorant 
lupercilious  "  Jack  in  office." 

SCENE  HI.— A  Street. 

Enter  DOGBERRY  and  VERGES,  with  the  Watcli. 
Dogl}.     Are  you  good  men  and  true  ? 

Verg.  Yea,  or  else  it  were  pity  but  they  should  suffer  salvation, 
oody  and  soul. 


68  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Dogb.  Nay,  that  were  a  punishment-  too  good  for  them,  if  the* 
should  have  any  allegiance  in  them,  being  chosen  for  the  prince's 
watch. 

Verg.  Well,  give  them  their  charge,  neighbor  Dogberry. 

Dogb.  First,  who  think  you  the  most  desartless  man  to  be  con* 
stable  ? 

1st  Watch.  Hugh  Oatcake,  sir,  or  George  Seacoal ;  for  they  can 
write  and  read. 

Dogl.  Come  hither,  neighbor  Seacoal :  Heaven  hath  blessed  you 
vith  a  good  name  :  to  be  a  well-favored  man  is  the  gift  of  fortune ; 
but  to  write  and  read  comes  by  nature. 

2nd  Watch.  Both  which,  master  constable, 

Dogb.  You  have ;  I  knew  it  would  be  your  answer.  Well,  for 
your  favor,  sir,  why,  give  Heaven  thanks,  and  make  no  boast  of  it ; 
and  for  your  writing  and  reading,  let  that  appear  when  there  is  no 
need  of  such  vanity.  You  are  thought  here  to  be  the  most  senseless 
and  fit  man  for  the  constable  of  the  watch,  therefore  bear  you  the 
lantern :  This  is  your  charge  ;  You  shall  comprehend  all  vagrom 
men  ;  you  are  to  bid  any  man  stand,  in  the  prince's  name. 

2nd  Watch.  How  if  he  will  not  stand  ? 

Dogb.  Why,  then,  take  no  note  of  him,  but  let  him  go;  and 
presently  call  the  rest  of  the  watch  together,  and  thank  Heaven  you 
are  rid  of  a  knave. 

Verg.  If  he  will  not  stand  when  he  is  bidden,  he  is  none  of  the 
prince  s  subjects. 

Dogb.  True,  and  they  are  to  meddle  with  none  but  the  prince's 
subjects : — You  shall  also  make  no  noise  in  the  streets  ;  for,  for  the 
watch  to  babble  and  talk,  is  most  tolerable  and  not  to  be  endured. 

2nd  Watch.  We  v/ill  rather  sleep  than  talk ;  we  know  what  belongs 
to  a  watch. 

Dogb.  Why,  you  speak  like  an  ancient  and  most  quiet  watchman ; 
for  I  cannot  see  how  sleeping  should  offend  :  only,  have  a  care  that 
your  bills  be  not  stolen  : — Well,  you  are  to  call  at  all  the*  ale-houses 
and  bid  those  that  are  drunk  get  them  to  bed. 

2nd  Watch.  How  if  they  will  not  ? 

Dogb.  Why  then,  let  them  alone  till  they  are  sober ;  if  they  make 
you  not  then  the  better  answer,  you  may  say  they  are  not  the  men 
you  took  them  for. 

2nd  Watch.  Well,  sir. 

Dogb.  If  you  meet  a  thief,  you  may  suspect  him,  by  virtue  of  you/ 
office,  to  be  no  true  man :  and  for  such  kind  of  men,  the  less  you 
meddle  or  make  with  them,  why,  the  more  is  for  your  honesty. 

2nd  Watch.  If  we  know  him  to  be  a  thief,  shall  we  not  lay  hands 
on  him  ? 

Dogb.  Truly,  by  your  office,  you  may;  but,  I  think,  they  that 
touch  pitch  will  be  defiled  :  the  most  peaceable  way  for  you,  if  you 
do  take  a  thief,  is,  to  let  him  show  himself  what  he  is,  and  steal  out 
of  your  company. 

Verg.  You  have  been  always  called  a  merciful  man,  partner. 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  69 

Dogb.  Truly,  I  would  not  hang  a  dog  by  my  will ;  much  more  a 
man  who  hath  any  honesty  in  him. 

Verg.  If  you  hear  a  child  cry  in  the  night,  you  must  call  to  the 
nurse,  and  bid  her  still  it. 

2nd  Watch.  How  if  the  nurse  be  asleep,  and  will  not  hear  us  1 

Dogb.  Why,  then,  depart  in  peace,  and  let  the  child  wake  her  with 
crying ;  for  the  ewe  that  will  not  hear  her  lamb  when  it  "baes,  will 
never  answer  a  calf  when  he  bleats. 

Verg.  'Tis  very  true. 

Dogb.  This  is  the  end  of  the  charge.  You,  constable,  are  to  pre- 
sent the  prince's  own  person ;  if  vou  meet  the  prince  in  the  night, 
you  maj  stay  him. 

Verg.  Nay,  by'r  lady,  that,  I  think,  he  cannot. 

Dogb.  Five  shillings  to  one  on't,  with  any  man  that  Knows  the 
statues,  he  may  stay  him  :  marry,  not  without  the  prince  be  willing  : 
for,  indeed,  the  watch  ought  to  offend  no  man ;  and  it  is  an  offence 
to  stay  a  man  against  his  will. 

Verg.  By'r  lady,  I  think  it  be  so. 

Dogb.  Ha,  ha,  ha !  Well,  masters,  good  night :  an  there  be  any 
matter  of  weight  chances,  call  up  me :  keep  your  fellows'  counsels 
and  your  own,  and  good  night. — Come,  neighbor. 

2nd  Watch.  Well,  masters,  we  hear  our  charge  :  let  us  go  sit  here 
upon  the  church-bench  till  two,  and  then  all  to  bed. 

Dogb.  One  word  more,  honest  neighbors  :  I  pray  you,  watch  about 
signior  Leooato's  door;  for  the  wedding  being  there  to-morrow, 
there  is  a  great  coil  to-night :  Adieu,  be  vigilant,  I  beseech  you. 

[Exeunt  DOGBERRY  and  VERGES." 

Enter  BORACHIO  and  CONRADE. 

Bora.  What!  Conrade, — 

Watch.  Peace,  stir  not,  [Aside. 

Bora.  Conrade,  I  say  ! 

Con.  Here,  man,  I  am  at  thy  elbow. 

Bora.  Stand  thee  close  then  under  this  pent-house,  for  it  drizzles 
rain  ;  and  I  will,  like  a  true  drunkard,  utter  all  to  thee. 

Watch.  [Aside.] — Some  treason,  masters  ;  yet  stand  close. 

Bora.  Therefore  know,  I  have  earned  of  Don  John  a  thousand 
ducats. 

Con.  Is  it  possible  that  any  villany  should  be  so  dear  ? 

Bora.  Thou  should'st  rather  ask,  if  it  were  possible  any  villany 
should  be  so  rich ;  for  when  rich  villains  have  need  of  poor  ones, 
poor  ones  may  make  what  price  they  will. 

Con.  I  wonder  at  it. 

Bora.  That  shows,  thou  art  unconfirmed  .  Thou  knowest,  that  the 
fashion  of  a  doublet,  or  a  hat,  or  a  cloak,  is  nothing  to  a  man. 

Con.  Yes,  it  is  apparel. 

Bora.  I  mean,  the  fashion. 

Con.  Yes,  the  fashion  is  the  fashion. 


70  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Bora.  Tush  !  I  may  as  well  say,  the  fool's  the  fool.  But  sees* 
thou  not  what  a  deformed  thief  this  fashion  is  ? 

Watch.  I  know  that  Deformed ;  he  has  been  a  vile  thief  this  seven 
year ;  he  goes  up  and  down  like  a  gentleman  :  I  remember  his  name. 

[Aside,. 

Bora.  Didst  thou  not  hear  somebody  ? 

Con.  No ;  'twas  the  vane  on  the  house. 

Bora.  Seest  thou  not,  I  say,  what  a  deformed  thief  this  fashion  is  ? 
now  giddily  he  turns  about  all  the  hot  bloods,  between  fourteen  and 
five  and  thirty  ? 

Con.  All  this  I  see ;  and  see,  that  the  fashion  wears  out  more 
apparel  than  the  man :  But  art  not  thou  thyself  giddy  with  the  fashion 
too,  that  thou  hast  shifted  out  of  thy  tale  into  telling  me  of  the 
fashion  ? 

Bora.  Not  so  neither,  but  know,  that  I  have  to-night  wooed  Mar- 
garet, the  lady  Hero's  gentlewoman,  by  the  name  of  Hero;  she  leans 
me  out  at  her  mistress'  chamber  window,  bids  me  a  thousand  times 
good  night, — I  tell  this  tale  vilely : — I  should  first  tell  thee  how  the 
prince,  Claudio,  and  my  master,  planted,  and  placed,  and  possessed  by 
my  master  Don  John,  saw  afar  off  in  the  orchard  this  amiable  en- 
counter. 

Con.  And  thought  they,  Margaret  was  Hero  ? 

Bora.  Two  of  them  did,  the  prince  and  Claudio,  but  my  master 
knew  she  was  Margaret ;  and  partly  by  his  oaths,  which  first  pos- 
sessed them,  partly  by  the  dark  night,  which  did  deceive  them,  but 
chiefly  by  my  villany,  which  did  confirm  any  slander  that  Don  John 
had  made,  away  went  Claudio  enraged ;  swore  he  would  meet  her  as 
he  was  appointed,  next  morning  at  the  temple,  and  there,  before  the 
whole  congregation,  shame  her  with  what  he  saw  over-night,  and 
send  her  home  again  without  a  husband. 

1st  Watch.  We  charge  you  in  the  prince's  name,  stand. 

2nd  Watch.  Call  up  the  right  master  constable :  we  have  here  re- 
covered the  most  dangerous  piece  of  villany  that  ever  was  known  in 
the  commonwealth. 

1st  Watch.  And  one  Deformed  is  one  of  them. 

Con.  Masters,  masters. 

2nd  Watch.  You'll  be  made  bring  Deformed  forth,  I  warrant  you, 

Con.  Masters, — 

Is/  Watch.  Never  speak ;  we  charge  you,  let  us  obey  you  to  go 
with  us. 

Bora.  We  are  likely  to  prove  a  goodly  commodity,  being  taken  up 
of  these  men's  bills. 

Con.  A  commodity  in  question,  I  warrant  you.  Come,  we'll 
obey  you.  [Exit. 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  71 


ACT  IV. 

Olaudio,  deceived   l>y  the  machinations  of  Don  John,  believes   Hero  to  be  unfaithful. 

On  the  day  appointed  for  the  marriage,  he  attends  in  the  church,  and,  before  the 
assembled  guests,  denounces  Hero  as  being  false,  and  refuses  to  marry  her —  tlero  swooni 
on  hearing  the  charge,  and  Claudio  and  his  friends  retire.  The  Priest  or  Friar  eng^gad 
to  perform  the  nuptial  ceremony,  interferes  to  appease  the  wrath  of  Leonato. 

Enter  Friar,  HERO,  LEONATO,  BENEDICK,  and  BEATRICE. 

Friar.  Hear  me  a  little ; 
For  I  have  only  been  silent  so  long, 
And  given  way  unto  this  course  of  fortune, 
By  noting  of  the  lady ;  I  have  mark'd 
A  thousand  blushing  apparitions  start 
Into  her  face  ;  a  thousand  innocent  shames 
In  angel  witnesses  bear  away  those  blushes ; 
And  in  her  eye  there  hath  appear'd  a  fire, 
To  burn  the  errors  that  these  princes  hold 
Against  her  maiden  truth : — Call  me  a  fool ; 
Trust  not  my  reading,  nor  my  observations, 
Which  with  experimental  zeal  doth  warrant 
The  tenor  of  my  book  ;  trust  not  my  age, 
My  reverence,  calling,  nor  divinity, 
If  this  sweet  lady  lie  not  guiltless  here 
Under  some  biting  error. 

Leon.  Friar,  it  cannot  be  : 

Thou  seest,  that  all  the  grace  that  she  hath  left, 
Is,  that  she  will  not  add  to  her  damnation 
A  sin  of  perjury ;  she  not  denies  it : 
Why  seek'st  thou  then  to  cover  with  excuse 
That  which  appears  in  proper  nakedness  ? 

Friar.  Lady,  what  man  is  he  you  are  accus'd  of? 

Hero.  They  know,  that  do  accuse  me  ;  I  know  none : 
If  I  know  more  of  any  man  alive, 
Than  that  which  maiden  modesty  doth  warrant, 
Let  all  my  sins  lack  mercy ! — O  my  father, 
Prove  you  that  any  man  with  me  convers'd 
At  hours  unmeet,  or  that  I  yesternight 
Maintain'd  the  change  of  words  with  any  creature, 
Refuse  me,  hate  me,  torture  me  to  death. 

Friar.  There  is  some  strange  misprision  in  the  princes. 

Bene.  Two  of  them  have  the  very  bent  of  honor; 
And  if  their  wisdoms  be  misled  in  this, 
The  practice  of  it  lives  in  John  the  bastard, 
Whose  spirits  toil  in  frame  of  villanies. 

Leon.  I  know  not ;  If  they  speak  but  truth  of  her, 
These  hands  shall  tear  her ;  if  they  wrong  her  honor, 
The  proudest  of  them  shall  well  hear  of  it. 
Time  hath  not  yet  so  dried  this  blood  of  mine, 


72  SHAKSPEARIAN    HEADER. 

Nor  age  so  eat  up  my  invention, 
Nor  fortune  made  such  havoc  of  my  means, 
Nor  my  bad  life  reft  me  so  much  of  friends, 
But  they  shall  find,  awak'd  in  such  a  kind, 
Both  strength  of  limb,  and  policy  of  mind, 
Ability  in  means,  and  choice  of  friends, 
To  quit  me  of  them  thoroughly. 

Friar.  Pause  a  while, 

And  let  my  counsel  sway  you  in  this  case. 
Your  daughter  here  the  princes  left  for  dead  ; 
Let  her  awhile  be  secretly  kept  in, 
And  publish  it  that  she  is  dead  indeed : 
Maintain  a  mourning  ostentation ; 
And  on  your  family's  old  monument 
Hang  mournful  epitaphs,  and  do  all  rites 
That  appertain  unto  a  burial. 

Leori.  What  shall  become  of  this  ?    What  will  this  do  t 

Friar.  Marry,  this,  well  carried,  shall  on  her  behalf 
Change  slander  to  remorse  ;  that  is  some  good : 
She  dying,  as  it  must  be  so  maintain'd, 
Upon  the  instant  that  she  was  accus'd, 
Shall  be  lamented,  pitied,  and  excus'd, 
Of  every  hearer  :  For  it  so  falls  out, 
That  what  we  have  we  prize  not  to  the  worth, 
Whiles  we  enjoy  it ;  but  being  lack'd  and  lost, 
Why,  then  we  rack  the  value,  then  we  find 
The  virtue,  that  possession  would  not  show  us 
Whiles  it  was  ours :  So  will  it  fare  with  Claudio : 
When  he  shall  hear  she  died  upon  his  words, 
The  idea  of  her  life  shall  sweetly  creep 
Into  his  study  of  imagination ; 
And  every  lovely  organ  of  her  life 
Shall  come  apparell'd  in  more  precious  habit, 
More  moving-delicate,  and  full  of  life, 
Into  the  eye  and  prospect  of  his  soul, 
Than  when  she  lived  indeed  : — then  shall  he  mourn, 
And  wish  he  had  not  so  accus'd  her ; 
No,  though  he  thought  his  accusation  true. 
Let  this  be  so,  and  doubt  not  but  success 
Will  fashion  the  event  in  better  shape 
Than  I  can  lay  it  down  in  likelihood. 
But  if  all  aim  but  this  be  levell'd  false, 
The  supposition  of  the  lady's  death 
Will  quench  the  wonder  of  her  infamy : 
And,  if  it  sort  not  well,  you  may  conceal  her 
(As  best  befits  her  wounded  reputation,) 
In  some  reclusive  and  religious  life, 
Out  of  all  eyes,  tongues,  minds,  and  injuries. 

Bene.  Signior  Leonato,  let  the  friar  advise  you: 


MUCH    ADO    ABOUT   NOTHING. 

And  though,  you  know,  my  inwardness  and  love 
Is  very  much  unto  the  prince  and  Claudio, 
Yet,  by  mine  honor,  I  will  deal  in  this 
As  secretly  and  justly  as  your  soul 
Should  with  your  body. 

Leon.  Being  that  I  flow  in  grief, 

The  smallest  twine  may  lead  me. 

Friar.  'Tis  well  consented  ;  presently  away  ; 
For  to  strange  sores  strangely  they  strain  the  cure. — 
Come,  lady,  die  to  live  ;  this  wedding  day, 
Perhaps,  is  but  prolong'd ;  have  patience,  and  endure. 

[Exeunt  Friar,  HERO,  and  LEONATO. 

Bene.  Lady  Beatrice,  have  you  wept  all  tbje  while  ? 

Beat.  Yea,  and  I  will  weep  awhile  longer. 

Bene.  I  will  not  desire  that. 

Beat.  You  have  no  reason,  I  do  it  freely. 

Bene.  Surely,  I  do  believe  your  fair  cousin  is  wrong'd. 

Beat.  Ah,  how  much  might  the  man  deserve  of  me  that  would 
right  her. 

Bene.  Is  there  any  way  to  show  such  friendship  ? 

Beat.  A  very  even  way,  Jbut  no  such  friend. 

Bene.  May  a  man  do  it  ? 

Beat.  It  is  a  man's  office,  but  not  yours. 

Bene.  I  do  love  nothing  in  the  world  so  well  as  you ;  Is  not  that 
strange  ? 

Beat.  As  strange  as  the  thing  I  know  not :  It  were  as  possible  >for 
me  to  say,  I  loved  nothing  so  well  as  you  :  but  believe  me  not ;  and 
vet  I  lie  not ;  I  confess  nothing,  nor  I  deny  nothing  : — I  am  sorry  for 
my  cousin. 

Bene.  By  my  sword,  Beatrice,  thou  lovest  me* 

Beat.  Do  not  swear  by  it,  and  eat  it. 

Bene.  I  will  swear  by  it,  that  you  love  me ;  and  I  will  make  him 
eat  it,  that  says,  I  love  not  you. 

Beat.  Will  you  not  eat  your  word  ? 

Bene.  With  no  sauce  that  can  be  devised  to  it :  I  protest,  I  love 
thee. 

Beat.  Why  then,  Heaven  forgive  me  ! 

Bene.  What  offence,  sweet  Beatrice  ? 

Beat.  You  have  staid  me  in  a  happy  hour;  I  was  about  to  pro- 
test I  loved  you. 

Bene.  And  do  it  with  all  thy  heart. 

Beat.  I  love  you  with  so  much  of  my  heart  that  none  is  .eft  to 
protest. 

Bene.  Come,  bid  rne  do  any  thing  for  thee. 

Beat.  Kill  Claudio. 

Bene.  Ha  !  not  for  the  wide  world. 

Beat.  You  kill  me  to  deny  it :  Farewell. 

Bene.  Tarry,  sweet  Beatrice. 

Beat.  I  am  gone,  thougn  I  am  here  \  —There  is  no  love  in  you  v— - 

5 


74  SHAKSPEARIAN    READEK. 

Nay,  I  pray  you,  let  me  go. 

Bene.  Beatrice, — 

Beat.  In  faith,  I  will  go. 

Bene.  We'll  be  friends  first. 

Beat.  You  dare  easier  be  friends  with  me,  than  fig},  t  with  mine 
enemy. 

Bene.  Is  Claudio  thine  enemy  ? 

Beat.  Is  he  not  approved  in  the  height  a  villain,  that  hath  slan- 
dered, scorned,  dishonored  my  kinswoman  ? — O,  that  I  were  a  man ! 
— What !  bear  her  in  hand  until  they  come  to  take  hands ;  and  then 
with  public  accusation,  uncovered  slander,  unmitigated  rancor. — O 
Heaven,  that  I  were  a  man !  I  would  eat  his  heart  in  the  market- 
place. 

Bene.  Hear  me,  Beatrice ; — 

Beat.  Talk  with  a  man  out  at  a  window  ? — a  proper  saying. 

Bene.  Nay  but,  Beatrice  ; — 

Beat.  Sweet  Hero ! — she  is  wronged,  she  is  slandered,  she  is  undone. 

Bene.  Beat — 

Beat.  Princes,  and  counties?  Surely,  a  princely  testimony,  a 
goodly  count-confect ;  a  sweet  gallant,  surely  !  O  that  I  were  a  man 
for  his  sake  !  or  that  I  had  any  friend  would  be  a  man  for  my  sake  ! 
But  manhood  is  melted  into  courtesies,  valor  into  compliment,  and 
men  are  only  turned  into  tongue,  and  trim  ones  too  :  he  is  now  as 
valiant  as  Hercules,  that  only  tells  a  lie,  and  swears  it : — I  cannot  be 
a  man  with  wishing,  therefore  I  will  die  a  woman  with  grieving. 

Bene.  Tarry,  good  Beatrice  :  By  this  hand,  I  love  thee. 

Beat.  Use  it  for  my  love  some  other  way  than  swearing  by  it. 

Bene.  Think  you  in  your  soul  the  count  Claudio  hath  wronged 
Hero? 

Beat.  Yea,  as  sure  as  I  have  a  thought,  or  a  soul. 

Bene.  Enough,  I  am  engaged,  I  will  challenge  him ;  I  will  kiss 
your  hand,  and  so  leave  you :  By  this  hand,  Claudio  shall  render  me 
a  dear  account :  As  you  hear  of  me,  so  think  of  me.  Go,  comfort 
your  cousin :  I  must  say,  she  is  dead ;  and  so,  farewell.  [Exeunt 

SCENE  II.— A  Prison. 

Enter  DOGBERRY,  VERGES,  and  Sexton,  in  gowns ;  and  the  Watch 
with  CONRADE  and  BORACHIO. 

Dogb.  Is  our  whole  dissembly  appeared  ? 

Verg.  O,  a  stool  and  a  cushion  for  the  sexton ! 

Sexton.  Which  be  the  malefactors  ? 

Dogb.  Marry,  that  am  I  and  my  partner. 

Verg.  Nay,  that's  certain  ;  we  have  the  exhibition  to  examine. 

Sexton.  But  which  are  the  offenders  that  are  to  be  examined  1 
let  them  come  before  master  constable. 

Dogb.  Yea,  marry,  let  them  come  before  me. — What  is  your 
name,  friend  ? 

Bora.  Borachio. 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  75 

Dogb.  Pray  write  down — Borachio. Yours,  sirrah  ? 

Con.  I  am  a  gentleman,  sir,  and  my  name  is  Conrade. 

Dogb.  Write  down — master  gentleman  Conrade. — Masters,  it  is 
proved  already  that  you  are  little  better  than  false  knaves ;  and  it  will 
go  near  to  be  thought  so  shortly.  How  answer  you  for  yourselves  ? 

Con.  Marry,  sir,  we  say  we  are  none. 

Dogb.  A  marvellous  witty  fellow,  I  assure  you ;  but  I  will  go 
about  with  him. — Come  you  hither,  sirrah  ;  a  word  in  your  ear,  sir; 
I  say  to  you,  it  is  thought  you  are  false  knaves. 

Bora.  Sir,  I  say  to  you,  we  are  none. 

Dogb.  Well,  stand  aside. — They  are  both  in  a  talo ;  Have  you 
writ  down — that  they  are  none  ? 

Sexton.  Master  constable,  you  go  not  the^way  to  examine  ;  you 
must  call  forth  the  watch  that  are  their  accusers. 

Dogb.  Yea,  marry,  that's  the  eftest  way :  Let  the  watch  come 
forth :  Masters,  I  charge  you,  in  the  prince's  name,  accuse  these 
men. 

1st  Watch.  This  man  said,  sir,  that  Don  John,  the  prince's  brother 
was  a  villain. 

Dogb.  Write  down — prince  John  a  villain : — Why  this  is  flat  per- 
jury, to  call  a  prince's  brother — villain. 

Bora.  Master  constable, — 

Dogb.  Pray  thee,  fellow,  peace  ;  I  do  not  like  thy  look,  I  promise 
thee. 

Sexton.  What  heard  you  him  say  else  ? 

2nd  Watch.  Marry,  that  he  had  received  a  thousand  ducats  of 
Don  John,  for  accusing  the  lady  Hero  wrongfully. 

Dogb.  Flat  burglary,  as  ever  was  committed. 

Verg.  Yea,  by  the  mass,  that  it  is. 

Sexton.  What  else,  fellow  ? 

1st  Watch.  And  that  count  Claudio  did  mean,  upon  his  words,  to 
disgrace  Hero  before  the  whole  assembly,  and  not  marry  her. 

Dogb.  O  villain !  thou  wilt  be  condemned  into  everlasting  redemp- 
tion  for  this. 

Sextan.  What  else? 

2nd  Watch.  This  is  all. 

Sexton.  And  this  is  more,  masters,  than  you  can  deny.  Prince 
John  is  this  morning  secretly  stolen  away ;  Hero  was  in  this  manner 
accused,  in  this  very  manner  refused,  and  upon  the  grief  of  this, 
suddenly  died. — Master  constable,  let  these  men  be  bound,  and 
brought  to  Leonato's  ;  I  will  go  before  and  show  him  their  examina- 
tion. [Exit,. 

Dogb.  Come,  let  them  be  opinioned. 

Verg.  Let  them  be  in  band. 

Con.  Off,  coxcomb ! 

Dogb.  Where's  the  sexton?  let  him  write  down — the  prince's 
officer,  coxcomb. — Come,  bind  them  : — Thou  naughty  varlet ! 

Con.  Away  !  you  are  an  ass,  you  are  an  ass. 

Dogb.  Dost  thou  not  suspect  my  place  ?     Dost  thou  not  suspect 


7G  SHAKSrEARIAN    REAIER. 

my  years :— O  that  he  were  here  to  write  me  down— an  ass !  but, 
masters,  remember,  that  I  am  an  ass  ;  though  it  be  not  written  down, 
yet  forget  not  that  I  am  an  ass : — No,  thou  villain,  thou  art  full  of 
piety,  as  shall  be  proved  upon  thee  by  good  witness.  I  am  a  wise 
fellow ;  and,  which  is  more,  an  officer ;  and,  which  is  more,  a  house- 
holder ;  and,  which  is  more,  as  pretty  a  piece  of  flesh  as  any  is  in  Mes- 
sina ;  and  one  that  knows  the  law,  go  to ;  and  a  nch  fellow  enough, 
go  to ;  and  a  fellow  that  hath  had  ?osses ;  and  one  that  hath  two 

Crns,  and  every  thing  handsome  about  him  :  Bring  him  away.     O, 
I  had  been  writ  down — an  ass !  [Exeunt. 

ACT  V. 

Hero's  innocence  is  completely  established  by  tile  confession  of  Borachio 

Claudio,  on  learning  how  unjustly  he  had  accused  his  mistress,  implores  the  forgiveness 

of  Leonato,  and  offers  any  reparation  within  his  power — supposing  that  Hero  is  dead. 

Leonato  invites  him  to  come  to  his  House,  "  to-morrow  morning" — and  proposes  to  give 

him  the  hand  of  a  niece  of  his,  in  marriage.    Claudio  consents.    The  next  Scene  windi 

up  the  story  of  this  incomparable  comedy. 

SCENE. — A  Room  in  Leonato's  House. 

Enter  LEONATO,  ANTONIO,  BENEDICK,  BEATRICE,  URSULA,  Friar, 
and  HERO. 

Friar.  Did  I  not  tell  you  she  was  innocent  ? 

Leon.  So  are  the  prince  and  Claudio,  who  accus'd  her. 
Upon  the  error  that  you  have  heard  debated  : 
But  Margaret  was  in  some  fault  for  this ; 
Although  against  her  will,  as  it  appears 
In  the  true  course  of  all  the  question. 

Ant.  Well,  I  am  glad  that  all  things  sort  so  well. 

Bene.  And  so  am  I,  being  else  by  faith  enfcrc'd 
To  call  young  Claudio  to  a  reckoning  for  it. 

Leon.  Well,  daughter,  and  you  gentlewomen  all, 
Withdraw  into  a  chamber  by  yourselves  ; 
And,  when  I  send  for  you,  come  hither  mask'd  ! 
The  prince  and  Claudio  promis'd  by  this  hour 
To  visit  me : — You  know  your  office,  brother ; 
You  must  be  father  to  your  brother's  daughter, 
And  give  her  to  young  Claudio.  [Exeunt  Ladie* 

Ant.  Which  I  will  do  with  connrm'd  countenance. 

Bene.  Friar,  I  must  entreat  your  pains,  I  think. 

Friar.  To  do  what,  signior  ? 

Bene.  To  bind  me,  or  undo  me,  one  of  them. — 
Signior  Leonato,  truth  it  is,  good  signior, 
Your  niece  regards  me  with  an  eye  of  favor. 

Leon.  That  eye  my  daughter  lent  her ;  'Tis  most  true, 

Bens.  And  I  do  with  an  eye  of  love  requite  her. 

Leon.  The  sight,  whereof,  I  think,  you  had  from  me, 
From  Claudio  and  the  prince ;  But  what's  your  will  ? 


MUCH   ADO    ABOUT   NOTHING.  77 

Bene.  Your  answer,  sir,  is  enigmatical: 
But,  for  my  will,  my  will  is,  your  good  will 
May  stand  with  ours,  this  day  to  be  conjoin'd 
In  the  estate  of  honorable  marriage  ; — 
In  which,  good  friar,  I  shall  desire  your  help. 

Leon.  My  heart  is  with  your  liking. 

Friar.  And  my  help. 

Here  comes  the  prince,  and  Claudio. 

Enter  Don  PEDRO  and  CLAUDIO,  with  Attendants. 

D.  Pedro.  Good  morrow  to  this  fair  assembly. 

Leon.  Good  morrow,  prince  ;  good  morrow,  Claudio ; 
We  here  attend  you  ;  Are  you  yet  determin'd 
To-day  to  marry  with  my  brother's  daughter  ? 

Claud.  I'll  hold  my  mind,  were  she  an  Ethiop. 

Leon.  Call  her  forth,  brother,  here's  the  friar  ready. 

[Exit  AvroNio* 

D.  Pedro.  Good  morrow,  Benedick  :     Why,  what's  the  matter, 
That  you  have  such  a  February  face, 
So  full  of  frost,  of  storm,  and  cloudiness  ? 

Claud.  I  think,  he  thinks  upon  the  savage  bull : — 
Tush,  fear  not,  man,  we'll  tip  thy  horns  with  gold. 

Re-enter  ANTONIO,  with  the  Ladies  masked. 

Claud.  Here  come  other  reckonings. 
Which  is  the  lady  I  must  seize  upon  ? 

Ant.  This  same  is  she,  and  I  do  give  you  her. 

Claud.  Why,  then  she's  mine  :  Sweet,  let  me  see  your  face. 

Leon.  No,  that  you  shall  not,  till  you  take  her  hand, 
Before  this  friar,  and  swear  to  marry  her. 

Claud.  Give  me  your  hand  before  this  holy  friar ; 
I  am  your  husband,  if  you  like  of  me. 

Hero.  And  when  I  lived,  I  was  your  other  wife :        [  Unmasking, 
And  when  you  lov'd,  you  were  my  other  husband. 

Claud.  Another  Hero  ? 

Hero.  Nothing  certainer ; 

One  Hero  died  defam'd ;  but  I  do  live. 

D.  Pedro.  The  former  Hero  !  Hero  that  is  dead  ! 

Leon.  She  died  my  lord,  but  whiles  her  slander  livec" . 

Friar.  All  this  amazement  can  I  qualify  ; 
When,  after  that  the  holy  rites  are  ended, 
I'll  tell  you  largely  of  fair  Hero's  death  ; 
Meantime,  let  wonder  seem  familiar, 
And  to  the  chapel  let  us  presently. 

Bene.  Soft  and  fair,  friar. — Which  is  Beatrice  ? 

Beat.  I  answer  to  that  name ;  r  Unmasking 

What  is  your  will  ? 

Bene.  Do  not  you  love  me  ? 

Beat.  No,  no  more  than  reason. 


78  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Bene.  Why,  then  your  uncle,  and  the  prince,  and  Claudio, 
[lave  been  deceived  ;  for  they  swore  you  did. 

Beat.  Do  not  you  love  me  ? 

Bene.  No,  no  more  than  reason. 

Beat.  Why,  then  my  cousin,  Margaret,  and  Ursula, 
Are  much  deceiv'd ;  for  they  swear,  you  did. 

Bene.  They  swore  that  you  were  almost  sick  for  mo. 

Beat.  They  swore  that  you  were  well-nigh  dead  for  me. 

Bene.  'Tis  no  such  matter  : — Then  you  do  not  love  me  ? 

Beat.  No,  truly,  but  in  friendly  recompense. 

Leon.  Come,  cousin,  I  am  sure  you  love  the  gentleman. 

Claud.  And  I'll  be  sworn  upon't,  that  he  loves  her : 
For  here's  a  paper,  written  in  his  hand, 
A  halting  sonnet  of  his  own  pure  brain, 
Fashion'd  to  Beatrice. 

Hero.  And  here's  another, 

Writ  in  my  cousin's  hand,  stolen  from  her  pocket, 
Containing  her  affection  unto  Benedick. 

Bene.  A  miracle!  here's  our  own  hands  against  our  hearts!—- 
Come5 1  will  have  thee  ;  but,  by  this  light,  I  take  thee  for  pity. 

Beat.  I  would  not  deny  you ; — but,  by  this  good  day,  I  yield  upon 
great  persuasion ;  and,  partly,  to  save  your  life,  for  1  was  told  you 
were  in  a  consumption. 

Bene.  Peace,  I  will  stop  your  mouth.  [Kissing  her. 

D.  Pedro.  How  dost  thou,  Benedick  the  married  man  ? 

Bene.  I'll  tell  thee  what,  prince  ;  a  college  of  wit-crackers  cannot 
flout  me  out  of  my  humor :  Dost  thou  think,  I  care  for  a  satire,  or  an 
epigram  ?  No  :  if  a  man  will  be  beaten  with  brains,  he  shall  wear 
nothing  handsome  about  him :  In  brief,  since  I  do  propose  to  marry, 
I  will  think  nothing  to  any  purpose  that  the  world  can  say  against  it ; 
and  therefore  never  flout  at  me  for  what  I  have  said  against  it ;  for 
man  is  a  giddy  thing,  and  this  is  my  conclusion.— -For  thy  part,  Clau- 
dio, I  did  think  to  have  beaten  thee ;  but  in  that  thou  art  like  to  be 
my  kinsman,  live  unbruised,  and  love  my  cousin. 

Claud.  I  had  well  hoped,  thou  wouldst  have  denied  Beatrice,  that 
I  might  have  cudgelled  thee  out  of  thy  single  life,  to  make  thee  a 
double  dealer ;  which,  out  of  question,  thou  wilt  be,  if  my  cousin  do 
not  look  exceeding  narrowly  to  thee. 

Bene.  Come,  come,  we  are  friends  : — let's  have  a  dance  ere  we 
are  married,  that  we  may  lighten  our  own  hearts,  and  our  wives' 
heels. 

Leon.  We'll  have  dancing  afterwards. 

Bene.  First,  o'  my  word  ;  therefore,  play  music. — Prince,  thou  art 
sad  ;  get  thee  a  wife,  get  thee  a  wife. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  My  lord,  your  brother  John  is  ta'en  in  flight, 
And  brought  with  armed  men  back  to  Messina. 

Bene.  Think  not  on  him  till  to-morrow;  I'll  devise  thee  brave 
punishments  for  him. — Strike  up,  pipers.  {Dance.  Exeunt 


MACBETH. 


"  The  traditionary  story  of  Macbeth,  on  which  this  Drama  a  founded,  is  related  by 
Hollinshed,  in  his  Chronicles,  and  also  by  George  Buchanan  ia  1>U  Latin  "  History  of 
Scotland." 

Shakspeare  is  supposed  to  have  availed  himself  of  Hollinshed's  narrative  in  the  con- 
struction of  this  Play,  as  the  incidents  introduced  by  the  Poet,  are  precisely  those  narrated 
by  the  chronicler.  The  supernatural  agency  exercised  by  the  Witches,  may  appear  ia 
this  enlightened  age,  to  be  beyond  the  bounds  of  credibility,  but  it  should  be  remembered 
that  in  Shakspeare's  time,  the  belief  in  witchcraft  was  universal. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 

DUNCAN,  King  of  Scotland. 

MALCOLM,  DONALBAIN,  his  sons. 

MACBETH,  BANQUO,  generals  of  the  King's  army. 

MACDUFF,  LENOX,  ROSSE,  MENTETH,  ANGUS,  CATIINESS,  noblemen 

of  Scotland. 

FLEANCE,  son  to  Banquo. 

SIWARD,  Earl  of  Northumberland,  general  of  the  English  forces. 
Young  SIWARD,  his  son. 
SEYTON,  an  officer  attending  on  Macbeth. 
Son  to  Macduff. 

An  English  Doctor.     A  Scotch  Doctor. 
A  Soldier.    A  Porter.     An  old  Man. 
Lady  MACBETH. 
Lady  MACDUFF. 

Gentlewoman  attending  on  Lady  Macbeth. 
HECATE,  and  three  Witches. 

Lords,  Gentlemen,  Officers,  Soldiers,  Murderers,  Attrndantat 

and  Messengers. 
The  Ghost  of  Banquo,  and  several  other  apparitions. 

SCENE, — in  the  end  of  the  Fourth  Act,  lies  in  ENGLAND  ;  through  the 
rest  of  the  Play,  in  SCOTLAND  ;  and,  chiefly,  at  MACBETH'S  Castle. 


80  SHAKSPEARIAN   READER. 


ACT    I. 

SCENE  I. — An  open  Place.     Thunder  and  Lightning. 
Enter  three  Witches. 

1st   Witch.  When  shall  we  three  meet  again, 
In  thunder,  lightning,  or  in  rain  ?   • 

2nd  Witch.  When  the  hurlyburly's  done, 
When  the  battle's  lost  and  won : 

3rd  Witch.  That  will  be  ere  set  of  sun. 

1st  Witch.  Where  the  place  ? 

2nd  Witch.  Upon  the  heath  : 

3rd  Witch.  There  to  meet  with  Macbeth. 

1st  Witch.  I  come,  Graymalkin! 

All.  Paddock  calls  : — Anon. — 
Fair  is  foul,  and  foul  is  fair :          "*". 
Hover  through  the  fog  and  filthy  air.  [Witches  vanish. 

SCENE  II. — A  Camp  near  Fores.     Alarum  vnthin. 

Enter  King  DUNCAN,  MALCOLM,  DONALBAIN,  LENOX,  with  Attend? jit^ 
meeting  a  bleeding  Soldier. 

Dun.  What  bloody  man  is  that  ?     He  can  report, 
As  seemeth  by  his  plight,  of  the  revolt 
The  newest  state. 

Mai.  This  is  the  sergeant, 

Who,  like  a  good  and  hardy  soldier,  fought 
'Gainst  my  captivity  : — Hail,  brave  friend  ! 
Say  to  the  king  the  knowledge  of  the  broil, 
\s  thou  didst  leave  it. 

Sol.  Doubtfully  it  stood  ; 

As  two  spent  swimmers,  that  do  cling  together, 
And  choke  their  art.     The  merciless  Macdonwald 
(Worthy  to  be  a  rebel ;  for,  to  that, 
The  multiplying  villanies  of  nature 
Do  swarm  upon  him,)  from  the  western  isles 
Of  Kernes  and  Gallowglasses  is  supplied  ; 
But  all's  too  weak  : 

For  brave  Macbeth,  (well  he  deserves  that  name,) 
Disdaining  fortune,  with  his  brandish'd  steel, 
Which  smok'd  with  bloody  execution, 
Like  valor's  minion, 

Carv'd  out  his  passage,  till  he  fac'd  the  slave ; 
And  ne'er  shook  hands,  nor  bade  farewell  to  him, 
Till  he  unseam'd  him  from  the  nave  to  the  chaps, 
And  fix'd  his  head  upon  our  battlements. 

Dun.  O,  valiant  cousin  !  worthy  gentleman ! 


MACBETH.  81 

Sol.  As  whence  the  sun  'gins  his  reflection 
Shipwrecking  storms  and  direful  thunders  break ; 
So  from  that  spring,  whence  comfort  seem'd  to  come, 
Discomfort  swells.     Mark,  king  of  Scotland,  mark, 
No  sooner  justice  had,  with  valor  arm'd, 
Compell'd  these  skipping  kernes  to  trust  their  heels  : 
But  the  Norweyan  lord,  surveying  vantage, 
With  furbish'd  arms,  and  new  supplies  of  men, 
Began  a  fresh  assault. 

Dun.  Dismay'd  not  this 

Our  captains,  Macbeth  and  Banquo  ? 

Sol.  Yes ; 

As  sparrows,  eagles  ;  or  the  hare,  the  lion. 
But  I  am  faint,  my  gashes  cry  for  help. 

Dun.  So  well  thy  words  become  thee,  as  thy  wounds ; 
They  smack  of  honor  both  : — Go,  get  him  surgeons. 

[Exit  Soldier,  attended. 

Enter  ROSSE. 

Who  comes  here  ? 

Mai.  The  worthy  thane  of  Rosse. 

Len.  What  a  haste  looks  through  his  eyes  !     So  should  he  look, 
That  seems  to  speak  things  strange. 

Rosse.  God  save  the  king ! 

Dun.  Whence  cam'st  thou,  worthy  thane  ? 

Rosse.  From  Fife,  great  king, 

Where  the  Norweyan  banners  flout  the  sky, 
And  fan  our  people  cold. 
Norway  himself,  with  terrible  numbers, 
Assisted  by  that  most  disloyal  traitor 
The  thane  of  Cawdor,  'gan  a  dismal  conflict : 
Till  that  Bellona's  bridegroom,  lapp'd  in  proof, 
Confronted  him  with  self-comparisons, 
Point  against  point  rebellious,  arm  'gainst  arm, 
Curbing  his  lavish  spirit :  And,  to  conclude, 
The  victory  fell  on  us  ; 

Dun.  Great  happiness ! 

Rosse.  That  now 

Sweno,  the  Norways'  king,  craves  composition ; 
Nor  would  we  deign  him  burial  of  his  men, 
Till  he  disbursed,  at  Saint  Colmes'  inch, 
Ten  thousand  dollars  to  our  general  use. 

Dun.  No  more  that  thane  of  Cawdor  shall  deceive 
Our  bo3om  interest. — Go,  pronounce  his  present  death, 
And  with  his  former  title  greet  Macbeth. 

Rosse.  1*1  see  it  done. 

Dun.  What  he  hath  lost,  noble  Macbeth  hath  WOH.          [  Exeunt. 
5* 


62  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

SCENE  III.— A  Heath.     Thunder 
Enter  the  three  Witches. 

1st  Witch.  Where  hast  thou  been,  sister  ?  - 

2nd  Witch.  Killing  swine. 

3rd  Witch.  Sister,  where  thou  ? 

1st  Witch.  A  sailor's  wife  had  chestnuts  in  her  lap, 
And  mounch'd  and  mounch'd  and  mounch'd  ; — Give  me,  quoth  I ' 
Aroint  thee,  witch !  the  rump-fed  ronyon  cries. 
Hei  husband's  to  Aleppo  gone,  master  o'  the  Tiger : 
But  in  a  sieve  I'll  thither  sail, 
And,  like  a  rat  without  a  tail, 
I'll  do,  I'll  do,  and  I'll  do. 

2nd  Witch.  I'll  give  thee  a  wind. 

1st  Witch:  Thou  art  kind. 

3rd  Witch.  And  I  another. 

1st  Witch.  I  myself  have  all  the  other « 
And  the  very  ports  they  blow, 
All  the  quarters  that  they  know 
I 'the  shipman's  card. 
I  will  drain  him  dry  as  hay  : 
Sleep  shall,  neither  night  nor  day, 
Hang  upon  his  pent-house  lid  ; 
He  shall  live  a  man  forbid  : 
Weary  sev'n-nights,  nine  times  nine, 
Shall  he  dwindle,  peak,  and  pine  : 
Though  this  bark  cannot  be  lost, 
Yet  it  shall  be  tempest-toss'd. 
Look  what  I  have. 

2nd  Witch.  Show  me,  show  me. 

1st  Witch.  Here  I  have  a  pilot's  thum, 
Wreck'd  as  homeward  he  did  come.  [Drum  within, 

3rd  Witch.  A  drum,  a  drum  : 
Macbeth  doth  come. 

All.  The  weird  sisters,  hand  in  hand, 
Posters  of  the  sea  and  land, 
Thus  do  go  about,  about ; 
Thrice  to  thine,  and  thrice  to  mine. 
And  thrice  again,  to  make  up  nine  : 
Peace  ! — the  charm's  wound  up. 

Enter  MACBETH  and  BANQUO. 

Macb.  Sj  f  -ml  and  fair  a  day  I  have  not  seen. 

Ban.  How  far  is't  call'd  to  Fores  ? — What  are  these, 
So  wither'd,  and  so  wild  in  their  attire ; 
That  look  not  like  the  inhabitants  o'  the  earth, 
A.nd  yet  are  on't  ?    Live  you  ?  or  are  you  aught 
That  man  may  question  ?     You  seem  to  understand  me, 


MAJBETH. 

By  each  at  once  her  choppy  finger  laying 
Upon  her  skinny  lips  : — You  should  be  women, 
Arid  yet  your  beards  forbid  me  to  interpret 
That  you  are  so. 

Macb.  Speak,  if  you  can  ; — What  are  you  ? 

1st  Witch.  All  hail,  Macbeth  !  hail  to  thee,  thane  of  Glamis ! 

2nd  Witch.  All  hail,  Macbeth !  hail  to  thee,  thane  of  Cawdor  ! 

3rd  Witch.  All  hail,  Macbeth  !  that  shalt  be  king  hereafter. 

Ban.  Good  sir,  why  do  you  start ;  and  seem  to  fear 
Things  that  do  sound  so  fair  ? — F  the  name  of  truth, 
Are  ye  fantastical,  or  that  indeed 
Which  outwardly  ye  show  ?    My  noble  partner 
You  greet  with  present  grace,  and  great  prediction 
Of  noble  having,  and  of  royal  hope, 
That  he  seems  wrapt  withal ;  to  me  you  speak  not : 
If  you  can  look  into  the  seeds  of  time, 
And  say,  which  grain  will  grow,  and  which  will  not ; 
Speak  then  to  me,  who  neither  beg,  nor  fear, 
Your  favors,  nor  your  hate. 

1st  Witch.    Hail ! 

2nd  Witch.  Hail ! 

3rd  Witch.  Hail ! 

1st  Witch.  Lesser  than  Macbeth,  and  greater. 

2nd  Witch.  Not  so  happy,  yet  much  happier. 

3rd  Witch.  Thy  children  shall  be  kings,  though  thou  be  ncne : 
So  all  hail,  Macbeth  and  Banquo  ! 

1st  Witch.  Banquo,  and  Macbeth,  all  hail ! 

Macb.  Stay,  you  imperfect  speakers,  tell  me  more  : 
By  Sinel's  death,  I  know,  I  am  thane  of  Glamis ; 
But  how  of  Cawdor  ?  the  thane  of  Cawdor  li ves, 
A  prosperous  gentleman ;  and,  to  be  king, 
Stands  not  within  the  prospect  of  belief, 
No  more  than  to  be  Cawdor.     Say,  from  whence 
You  owe  this  strange  intelligence"?  or  why 
Upon  this  blasted  heath  you  stop  our  way 
With  such  prophetic  greeting  ? — Speak,  I  charge  you. 

[Witches 

Ban.  The  earth  hath  bubbles,  as  the  water  has, 
And  these  are  of  them :  Whither  are  they  vanish'd  ? 

Macb.  Into  the  air :  and  what  seem'd  corporal,  melted 
As  breath  into  the  wind. — 'Would  they  had  staid  ! 

Ban.  Were  such  things  here,  as  we  do  speak  about  ? 
Or  have  we  eaten  of  the  insane  root, 
That  takes  the  reason  prisoner  ? 

Macb.  Your  children  shall  be  kings. 

Ban.  You  shall  be  king. 

Macb.  And  thane  of  Cawdor,  too  ;  went  it  not  so  ? 

Ban.  To  the  self-same  tune,  and  words.     Who's  here  ? 


84  SHAKSPEAPJAN   READER. 


Enter  ROSSE  and  ANGUS. 

Rosse.  The  king  hath  happily  received,  Macbeth, 
The  news  of  thy  success :  and  when  he  reads 
Thy  personal  venture  in  the  rebels'  fight, 
His  wonders  and  his  praises  do  contend, 
Which  should  be  thine,  or  his :  Silenc'd  with  that, 
In  viewing  o'er  the  rest  o'  the  self-same  day, 
He  finds  thee  in  the  stout  Norweyan  ranks, 
Nothing  afeard  of  what  thyself  didst  make, 
Strange  images  of  death.     As  thick  as  hail, 
Came  post  with  post ;  and  every  one  did  bear 
Thy  praises  in  his  kingdom's  great  defence, 
And  pour'd  them  down  before  him. 

Ang.  We  are  sent,  , 

To  give  thee,  from  our  royal  master,  thanks ; 
To  herald  thee  into  his  sight,  not  pay  thee. 

Rosse.  And,  for  an  earnest  of  a  greater  honor, 
He  bade  me,  from  him,  call  thee  thane  of  Cawdor  ; 
In  which  addition,  hail,  most  worthy  thane ! 
For  it  is  thine. 

Ban.  What,  can  the  devil  speak  true  ? 

Macb.  The  thane  of  Cawdor  lives  ;  Why  do  you  dress 
In  borrowed  robes  ? 

Ang.  Who  was  the  thane,  Jives  yet ; 

But  under  heavy  judgment  bears  that  life 
Which  he  deserves  to  lose.     Whether  he  was 
Combin'd  with  Norway ;  or  did  line  the  rebel 
With  hidden  help  and  vantage  ;  or  that  with  both 
He  labor'd  in  his  country's  wreck,  I  know  not 
But  treasons  capital,  confess'd,  and  prov'd, 
Have  overthrown  him. 

Macb.  Glamis,  and  thane  of  Cawdor : 

The  greatest  is  behind. — Thanks  for  your  pains.— 
Do  you  not  hope  your  children  shall  be  kings, 
When  those  that  gave  the  thane  of  Cawdor  te  ma 
Promis'd  no  less  to  them  ? 

Ban.  That,  trusted  home. 

Might  yet  enkindle  you  unto  the  crown, 
Besides  the  thane  of  Cawdor.     But  'tis  strange 
And  oftentimes  to  win  us  to  our  harm, 
The  instruments  of  darkness  tell  us  truths ; 
Win  us  with  honest  trifles,  to  betray  us 
In  deepest  consequences. — 
Cousins,  a  word,  I  pray  you. 

Macb.  Two  truths  are  told, 

As  happy  prologues  to  the  swelling  act 
Of  the  imperial  theme. — I  thank  you,  gentlemen.— 
This  supernatural  soliciting 


MACBETH.  8ft 

Cannot  be  ill ;  cannot  ">e  good  : — If  ill, 
Why  hath  it  given  me  earnest  of  success, 
Commencing  in  a  truth  ?     I  am  thane  of  Cawdor : 
If  good,  why  do  I  yield  to  that  suggestion 
Whose  horrid  unage  doth  unfix  rny  hair, 
And  make  my  seated  heart  knock  at  my  ribs, 
Against  the  use  of  nature  ?     Present  fears 
Are  less  than  horrible  imaginings  : 
My  thought,  whose  murder  yet  is  but  fantastical, 
Shakes  so  my  single  state  of  man,  that  function 
Is  smother'd  in  surmise  ;  and  nothing  is, 
Bat  what  is  not. 

Ban.  Look,  how  our  partner's  rapt. 

Macb.  If  chance  will  have  me  king,  why,  chance  may  crown  lie 
Without  my  stir. 

Ban.  New  honors  come  upon  him 

Like  our  strange  garments  ;  cleave  not  to  their  mould, 
But  with  the  aid  of  use. 

•    Macb.  Come  what  come  may  ; 

Time  and  the  hour  runs  through  the  roughest  day. 

Ban.  Worthy  Macbeth,  we  stay  upon  your  leisure. 

Macb.  Give  me  your  favor : — my  dull  brain  was  wrought   - 
With  things  forgotten.     Kind  gentlemen,  your  pains 
Are  register'd  where  every  day  I  turn 
The  leaf  to  read  them. — Let  us  toward  the  king. — 
Think  upon  what  hath  chanc'd  ;  and,  at  more  time, 
The  interim  having  weigh'd  it,  let  us  speak 
Our  free  hearts  each  to  other. 

Ban.  Very  gladly. 

Macb.  Till  then,  enough. — Come,  friends.  [Exeunt, 

Macbeth  goes  to  Fores  to  pay  his  duty  to  King  Duncan,  who  confirms  him  in  his  title 
of  Thane  of  Cawdor,  and  as  a  farther  proof  of  the  royal  favor,  the  King  announces  hi* 
intention  of  visiting  Macbeth  at  his  Castle  in  Inverness.  Macbeth  leaves  the  King  to  be 
tne  "  harbinger"  of  the  monarch's  proposed  visit. 

The  Scene  changes  to  the  Castle  of  Macbeth,  and  Lady  Macbeth  enters,  reading  a 
Letter  she  has  just  received  from  her  husband. 

SCENE  V. 
Inverness.     A  Room  in  Macbeth's  Castle. 

Enter  Lady  Macbeth,  reading  a  letter- 

Lady  M.  They  met  me  in  the  day  </  success ;  and  1  have  learned 
by  the  perfectest  report,  they  have  more  in  them  than  mortal  knowledge. 
When  I  burned  in  desire  to  question  them  further,  they  made  them- 
selves— air,  into  which  tJiey  vanished.  Whiles  I  stood  rapt  in  the 
wonder  of  it,  came  missives  from  the  king,  who  all-hailed  me,  Thane 
of  Cawdor ;  by  which  title,  before,  these  weird  sisters  saluted  me,  and 
Deferred  me  to  the  coming  on  of  time,  with,  Hail,  king  that  shalt  be  ' 


86  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

This  have  I  thought  good  to  deliver  thee,  my  dearest  partner  of  my 
greatness  ;  that  tliou  mightesl  not  lose  the  dues  of  rejoicing,  by  being 
ignorant  of  what  greatness  is  promised  thee.  Lay  it  to  thy  heart,  anA 
farewell. 

Glamis  thou  art,  and  Cawdor ;  and  shalt  be 

What  thou  art  promis'd  : — Yet  do  I  fear  thy  nature  ; 

It  is  too  full  o'  the  milk  of  human  kindness, 

To  catch  the  nearest  way.    Thou  would'st  be  great ; 

Art  not  without  ambition  ;  but  without 

The  illness  should  attend  it.    What  thou  would'st  highly, 

That  would'st  thou  holily  ;  would'st  not  play  false, 

And  yet  would'st  wrongly  win :  thou'dst  have,  great  Glamis, 

That  which  cries,  Thus  thou  must  do,  if  thou  have  it ; 

\.nd  that  which  rather  thou  dost  fear  to  do, 

Than  wishest  should  be  undone.     Hie  thee  hither, 

That  I  may  pour  my  spirits  in  thine  ear ; 

And  chastise  with  the  valor  of  my  tongue 

All  that  impedes  thee  from  the  golden  round, 

Which  fate  and  metaphysical  aid  doth  seem 

To  have  thee  crown'd  withal. What  is  your  tidings  ? 

Enter  an  Attendant. 

Alien.  The  king  comes  here  to-night. 

Lady  M.  .  Thou'rt  mad  to  say  it : 

Is  not  thy  master  with  him  ?  who,  wer't  so, 
Would  have  inform'd  for  preparation. 

Alien.  So  please  you,  it  is  true  ;  our  thane  is  coming : 
One  of  my  fellows  had  the  speed  of  him  : 
Who,  almost  dead  for  breath,  had  scarcely  more 
Than  would  take  up  his  message. 

Lady  M.  Give  him  tending. 

He  brings  good  news.    The  raven  himself  is  hoarse, 

[Exit  Attendant 

That  croaks  the  fatal  entrance  of  Duncan 
Under  my  battlements.     Come,  come,  you  spirits 
That  tend  on  mortal  thoughts,  unsex  me  here  ; 
And  fill  me,  from  the  crown  to  the  toe,  top-full 
Of  direst  cruelty  !  make  thick  my  blood, 
Stop  up  the  access  and  passage  to  remorse ; 
That  no  compunctious  visitings  of  nature 
Shake  my  fell  purpose,  nor  keep  peace  between 
The  effect,  and  it !     Come,  you  murd'ring  ministers, 
Wherever  in  your  sightless  substances 
YOG  wait  on  nature's  mischief !     Come,  thick  night, 
And  pall  thee  in  the  dunnest  smoke  of  hell ! 
That  my  keen  knife  see  not  the  wound  it  makes ; 
Nor  heaven  peep  through  the  blanket  of  the  dark, 
To  cry,  Hold,  hold ! Great  Glamis  '  worthy  Cawdor ! 


MACBETH.  87 

Enter  MACBETH. 

Greater  than  both,  by  tne  all-hail  hereafter  ! 
Thy  letters  have  transported  me  beyond 
This  ignorant  present,  and  I  feel  now 
The  future  in  the  instant. 

Macb.  My  dearest  love, 

Duncan  comes  here  to-night. 

Lady  M.  And  when  goes  hence  ? 

Macb.  To-morrow,  as  he  purposes. 

Lady  M,  O,  never 

Shall  sun  that  morrow  see  ! 
Your  face,  my  thane,  is  as  a  book,  where  men 
May  read  strange  matters  ; — To  beguile  the  time, 
Look  like  the  time ;  bear  welcome  in  your  eye, 
Your  hand,  your  tongue :  look  like  the  innocent  flower, 
But  be  the  serpent  under  it.     He  that's  coming 
Must  be  provided  for :  and  you  shall  put 
This  night's  great  business  into  my  dispatch ; 
Which  shall  to  all  our  nights  and  days  to  come 
Give  solely  sovereign  sway  and  masterdom. 

Macb.  We  will  speak  further. 

Lady  M.  Only  look  up  clear . 

To  alter  favor  ever  is  to  fear : 
Leave  all  the  rest  to  me.  [Exeunl. 

SCENE   VI.— The  same.     Before  the  Cattle. 
Hautboys.     Servants  of  Macbeth  attending. 

Enter  DUNCAN,  MALCOLM,  DONALBAIN,  BANQUO,  LENOX,  MACDUFP 
ROSSE,  ANGUS,  and  Attendants. 

Dun.  The  castle  hath  a  pleasant  seat ;  the  air 
Nimbly  and  sweetly  recommends  itself 
Unto  our  gentle  senses. 

Ban.  This  guest  of  summer, 

The  temple-haunting  martlet,  does  approve, 
By  his  lov'd  mansionry,  that  the  heaven's  breath 
Smells  wooingly  here  :  no  jutty,  frieze,  buttress, 
No  coigne  of  vantage,  but  this  bird  hath  made 
His  pendent  bed,  and  procreant  cradle  :  Where  they 
Most  breed  and  haunt,  I  have  observ'd  the  air 
Is  delicate. 

Enter  Lady  Macbeth. 

Dun.          See,  see  !  our  honor'd  hostess  ! 
The  love  that  follows  us,  sometimes  is  our  trouble, 
Which  still  we  thank  as  love.     Herein  I  teach  you, 
How  you  shall  bid  Heaven  yield  us  for  your  pains, 
Arid  thank  us  for  your  trouble. 


88  SHAKSPEARIAN   READER.      • 

Lady  M.  All  our  service 

In  every  point  twice  done,  and  then  done  double, 
Were  poor  and  single  business  to  contend 
Against  those  honors  deep  and  broad,  wherewith 
Your  majesty  loads  our  house  :  For  those  of  old 
And  the  late  dignities  heap'd  up  to  them, 
We  rest  your  hermits. 

Dun.  Where's  the  thane  of  Cawdor  ? 

We  cours'd  him  at  the  heels,  and  had  a  purpose 
To  be  his  purveyor :  but  he  rides  well ; 
And  his  great  love,  sharp  as  his  spur,  hath  holp  him 
To  his  home  before  us  :  'Fair  and  noble  hostess, 
We  are  your  guest  to-night. 

Lady  M.  Your  servants  ever 

Have  theirs,  themselves,  and  what  is  theirs,  in  compt, 
To  make  their  audit  at  your  highness'  pleasure, 
Still  to  return  your  own. 

Dun.  Give  me  your  hand : 

Conduct  me  to  mine  host ;  we  love  him  highly, 
And  shall  continue  our  graces  towards  him. 
By  your  leave,  hostess.     •  [ ExeurA. 

SCENE  VII.— The  same.     A  Room  in  the  Castle. 

Hautboys  and  torches.     Enter,  and  pass  over  the  stage,  a  Sewer,  ana 
divers  Servants  with  dishes  and  service.     Then  enter  MACBETH. 

Mad.  If  it  were  done,  when  'tis  done,  then  'twere  well 
It  were  done  quickly  :  If  the  assassination 
Could  trammel  up  the  consequence,  and  catch, 
With  his  surcease,  success  ;  that  but  this  blow 
Might  be  the  be-all  and  the  end-all  here, 
But  here,  upon  this  bank  and  shoal  of  time, — 
We'd  jump  the  life  to  come. — But  in  these  cases, 
We  still  have  judgment  here  ;  that  we  but  teach 
Bloody  instructions,  which  being  taught,  return 
To  plague  the  inventor :  This  even-handed  justice 
Commends  the  ingredients  of  our  poison'd  chalice 
To  our  own  lips.     He's  here  in  double  trust : 
First,  as  I  am  his  kinsman  and  his  subject, 
Strong  both  against  the  deed  :  then,  as  his  host, 
Who  should  against  his  murderer  shut  the  door, 
Not  bear  the  knife  myself.     Besides,  this  Duncan 
Hath  borne  his  faculties  so  meek,  hath  been 
So  clear  in  his  great  office,  that  his  virtues 
Will  plead  like  angels,  trumpet-tongued,  against 
The  deep  damnation  of  his  taking-off : 
And  pity,  like  a  naked  new-born  babe, 
Striding  the  blast,  or  heaven's  cherubim,  hors'd 
Upon  the  sightless  couriers  of  the  air, 


MACBETH.  89 

Shall  biow  the  horrid  deed  in  every  eye, 

That  tears  shall  drown  the  wind. — I  have  no  spur 

To  goad  the  sides  of  my  intent,  but  only 

Vaulting  ambition,  which  o'er-leaps  itself, 

And  falls  on  the  other. — How  now,  what  news  ? 

Enter  Lady  MACBETH. 

Lady  M.  He  has  almost  supp'd ;  Why  have  you  left  the  ch&mber  * 

Macb.  Hath  he  ask'd  for  me  ? 

Lady  M.  Know  you  not,  he  has  ? 

Macb.  We  will  proceed  no  further  in  this  business  : 
He  hath  honor'd  me  of  late;  and  I  have  bought 
Golden  opinions  from  all  sorts  of  people, 
Which  would  be  worn  now  in  their  newest  gloss, 
Not  cast  aside  so  soon. 

Lady  M.  Was  the  hope  drunk, 

Wherein  you  dress'd  yourself?  hath  it  slept  since? 
And  wakes  it  now,  to  look  so  green  and  pale 
At  what  it  did  so  freely  ?     From  this  time, 
Such  I  account  thy  love.     Art  thou  afeard 
To  be  the  same  in  thine  own  act  and  valor, 
As  thou  art  in  desire  ?     Would'st  thou  have  that 
Which  thou  esteem'st  the  ornament  of  life, 
And  live  a  coward  in  thine  own  esteem  ; 
Letting  I  dare  not  wait  upon  I  would, 
Like  the  poor  cat  i'  the  adage  ? 

Macb.  Pr'ythee,  peace  : 

I  dare  do  all  that  may  become  a  man ; 
Who  dares  do  more,  is  none. 

Lady  M.  .  What  beast  was  it  then, 

That  made  you  break  this  enterprise  to  me  ? 
When  you  durst  do  it,  then  you  were  a  man ; 
And,  to  be  more  than  what  you  were,  you  would 
Be  so  much  more  the  man.     Nor  time,  nor  place, 
Did  then  adhere,  and  yet  you  would  make  both :     . 
They  have  made  themselves,  and  that  their  fitness  now 
Does  unmake  you. 

Macb.  If  we  should  fail, 

LadyM.  We  fail! 

But  screw  your  courage  to  the  sticking  place, 
And  we'll  not  fail.     When  Duncan  is  asleep, 
(Whereto  the  rather  shall  his  day's  hard  journey 
Soundly  invite  him,)  his  two  chamberlains 
Will  I  w;th  wine  and  wassel  so  convince^ 
That  memory,  the  warder  of  the  brain. 
Shall  be  a  fume,  and  the  receipt  of  reason 
A  limbeck*  only  :  When  in  swinish  sleep. 

*  From  Alembic,  a  still. 


90  SHAKSPEAR1AN   READER. 

Their  drenched  natures  lie,  as  in  a  death, 
What  cannot  you  and  I  perform  upon 
The  unguarded  Duncan  ?  what  not  put  upon 
His  spongy  officers  ;  who  shall  bear  the  guilt 
Of  our  great  quell  ?* 

Macb.  Will  it  not  be  receiv'd, 

When  we  have  mark'd  with  blood  those  sleepy  two 
Of  his  own  chamber,  and  us'd  their  very  daggers,,. 
That  they  have  done  't? 

Lady  M.  Who  dares  receive  it  other, 

As  we  shall  make  our  griefs  and  clamor  roar 
Upon  his  death  ? 

Macb.  I  am  settled,  and  bend  up 

Each  corporal  agent  to  this  terrible  feat. 
Away,  and  mock  the  time  with  fairest  show : 
False  face  must  hide  what  the  false  heart  doth  know.          [Exeunt, 

ACT  II. 

SCENE  I.— The  same.     Court  within  the  Castle. 

Enter  BANQUO  and  FLEANCE,  and  a  Servant  with  a  torch  befort 

them. 

Ban.  How  goes  the  night,  boy  ? 

Fie.  The  moon  is  down  ;  I  have  not  heard  the  dock. 

Ban.  And  she  goes  down  at  twelve. 

Fie.  I  take't,  'tis  later,  sir. 

Ban.  Hold,  take  my  sword. — There's  husbandry  in  heaven, 
Their  candles  are  all  out. — Take  thee  that  too. 
A  heavy  summons  lies  like  lead  upon  me, 
And  yet  I  would  not  sleep  :  Merciful  powers  ! 
Restrain  in  me  the  cursed  thoughts,  that  nature 
Gives  way  to  in  repose  ! — Give  me  my  sword  ; — 

Enter  MACBETH,  and  a  Servant  ivith  a  torch. 

Who's  there  ? 

Macb.  A  friend. 

Ban.  What,  sir,  not  yet  at  rest  ?    The  king's  a-bed : 
He  hath  been  in  unusual  pleasure,  and 
Sent  forth  great  largess  to  your  offices : 
This  diamond  he  greets  your  wife  withal, 
By  the  name  of  most  kind  hostess  ;  and  shut  up 
In  measureless  content. 

Mad.  Being  unprepar'd, 

Our  will  became  the  servant  to  defect ; 
Which  else  should  free  have  wrought. 

Ban.  All's  well 

*  Murder. 


MACBETH.  91 

I  dreamt  last  night  of  the  three  weird  sisters : 
To  you  they  have  show'd  some  truth. 

Macb.  I  think  not  of  them : 

V'et,  when  we  can  entreat  an  hour  to  serve, 
Would  spend  it  in  some  words  upon  that  business, 
If  you  would  grant  the  time. 

Ban.  At  your  kind'st  leisure. 

Macb.  If  you  shall  cleave  to  my  consent, — when  'tis, 
It  shall  make  honor  for  you. 

Ban.  So  I  lose  none, 

In  seeking  to  augment  it,  but  still  keep 
My  bosom  franchis'd,  and  allegiance  clear, 
I  shall  be  counsel'd. 

Macb.  Good  repose,  the  while  ! 

Ban.  Thanks,  sir :  The  like  to  you  !  [Exit  BAN, 

Macb.  Go,  bid  thy  mistress,  when  my  drink  is  ready, 
She  strike  upon  the  bell.     Get  thee  to  bed.  [Exit  Serv. 

Is  this  a  dagger,  which  I  see  before  me, 

The  handle  toward  my  hand  ?  Come,  let  me  clutch  thee : 

I  have  thee  not,  and  yet  I  see  thee  still. 

Art  thou  not,  fatal  vision,  sensible 

To  feeling,  as  to  sight  ?  or  art  thou  but 

A  dagger  of  the  mind  ;  a  false  creation, 

Proceeding  from  the  heat-oppressed  brain  ? 

I  see  thee  yet,  in  form  as  palpable 

As  this  which  now  I  draw. 

Thou  marshal'st  me  the  way  that  I  was  going ; 

And  such  an  instrument  I  was  to  use. 

Mine  eyes  are  made  the  fools  o'  the  other  senses, 

Or  else  worth  all  the  rest :  I  see  thee  still ; 

And  on  thy  blade,  and  dudgeon,  gouts  of  blood, 

Which  was  not  so  before. — There's  no  such  thing : 

It  is  the  bloody  business,  which  informs 

Thus  to  mine  eyes. — Now  o'er  th«  one  half  world 

Nature  seems  dead,  and  wicked  dreams  abuse 

The  curtain'd  sleep ;  now  witchcraft  celebrates" 

Pale  Hecate's  offerings  ;  and  wither'd  murder, 

Alarum'd  by  his  sentinel,  the  wolf, 

Whose  howl's  his  watch,  thus  with  his  stealthy  pace, 

With  Tarquin's  ravishing  strides,  toward  his  design 

Moves  like  a  ghost. Thou  sure  and  firm  set  earth, 

Hear  not  my  steps,  which  way  they  walk,  for  fear 

Thy  very  stones  prate  of  my  where-about, 

And  take  the  present  horror  from  the  time, 

Which  now  suits  with  it. — Whiles  I  threat,  he  lives ; 

Words  to  the  heat  of  deeds  too  cold  breath  gives.  [A  bell  rings, 

I  go,  and  it  is  done ;  the  bell  invites  me ; 

Hear  it  not,  Duncan  ;  for  it  is  a  knell 

That  summons  thee  to  heaven,  or  to  hell.  [Exit. 


P2  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

SCENE  II.— The  same. 
Enter  Lady  MACB\:TH. 

Jjadii  M.  That  wliich  hath  made  them  drunk,  hath  made  me  bold , 
What  hath  quench'd  them,  hath  given  me  fire. — Hark !  Peace  ! 
It  was  the  owl  that  shriek'd,  the  fatal  bellman,    • 
Which  gives  the  stern'st  good-night.     He  is  about  it : 
The  doors  are  open  ;  and  the  surfeited  grooms 
Do  mock  their  charge  with  snores :  I  have  drugg'd  their  possets, 
That  death  and  nature  do  contend  about  them,  - 
Whether  they  live,  or  die. 

Macb.  [  WiUiin.-]—  Who's  there  ?— what,  ho  ! 

Lady  M.  Alack  !  I  am  afraid  they  have  awak'd, 
And  'tis  not  done  : — the  attempt,  and  not  the  deed, 
Confounds  us : — Hark ! — I  laid  their  daggers  ready, 
He  could  not  miss  them. — Had  he  not  resembled 
My  father  as  he  slept  I  had  done't. — My  husband  * 

Enter  MACBETH. 

n 

Mad.  I  have  done  the  deed : — Didst  thou  not  hear  a  noise,  \ 

Lady  M.  I  heard  the  owl  scream,  and  the  crickets  cry. 
Did  not  you  speak  ? 

Macb.  When  ? 

Lady  M.  Now. 

Macb.  As  I  descended  ? 

Lady  M.  Ay. 

Macb.  Hark! — 
Who  lies  i'  the  second  chamber  ? 

Lady  M.  Donalbain. 

Macb.  This  is  a  sorry  sight.  [Looking  or.  Ms  liands 

Lady  M.  A  foolish  thought,  to  say  a  sorry  sight. 

Macb.  There's  one  did  laugh  in  his  sleep,  and  one  cried,  murder  ? 
That  they  did  wake  each  other ;  I  stood  and  heard  them  : 
But  they  did  say  their  prayers,  and  address'd  them 
Again  to  sleep. 

Lady  M.  There  are  two  lodg'd  together. 

Macb.  One  cried,  God  bless  us !  and,  Amen,  the  othei  ; 
As  they  had  seen  me,  with  these  hangman's  hands, 
Listening  their  fear,  I  could  not  say,  amen, 
When  they  did  say,  God  bless  us. 

Lady  M.  Consider  it  not  so  deeply. 

Macb.  But  wherefore  could  not  I  pronounce,  amen  ? 
I  had  most  need  of  blessing,  and  amen 
Stuck  in  my  throat. 

Lady  M.  These  deeds  must  not  be  thought 

After  these  ways ;  so,  it  will  make  us  mad. 

Macb.  Methought.  I  heard  a  voice  cry,  Sleep  no  more  ! 
Macbeth  does  murder  sleep*  the  innocent  sleep  ; 


MACBETH.  93 

Sleep,  that  knte*  tip  the  ravell'd  sleave  of  care, 
The  death  of  een'i  day's  life,  sore  labor's  hath, 
Balm  of  hurt  m.nds,  great  nature's  second  course, 
Chief  nou~isher  in  life's  feast. 

Lady  M.  What  do  you  mean  ? 

Macb.  Still  it  cried,  Sleep  no  more !  to  all  the  house  : 
Glamis  hath  murder 'd  sleep :  and  therefore  Cawdor 
Shall  sleep  no  more,  Macbeth  shall  sleep  no  more ! 

Lady  M.  Who  was  it  that  thus  cried  ?  Why,  worthy  thane, 
You  do  unbend  your  noble  strength,  to  think 
So  brain  sickly  of  things : — Go,  get  some  water, 
And  wash  this  filthy  witness  from  your  hand.— 
Why  did  you  bring  these  daggers  from  the  place  ? 
They  must  lie  there :  Go,  carry  them ;  and  smear 
The  sleepy  grooms  with  blood. 

Macb.  I'll  go  no  more  : 

I  am  afraid  to  think  what  I  have  done  ; 
Look  on't  again,  I  dare  not. 

Lady  M.  Infirm  of  purpose  ! 

Give  me  the  daggers  :  The  sleeping,  and  the  dead, 
Are  but  as  pictures ;  'tis  the  eye  of  childhood, 
That  fears  a  painted  devil.     If  he  do  bleed, 
I'll  gild  the  faces  of  the  grooms  withal, 
For  it  must  seem  their  guilt.  [Exit.  Knocking  within, 

Macb.  Whence  is  that  knocking  ? 

How  is't  with  me,  when  every  noise  appals  me  ? 
What  hands  are  here  ?  Ha !  they  pluck  out  mine  eyes  ! 
Will  all  great  Neptune's  ocean  wash  this  blood 
Clean  from  my  hand  ?  No  ;  this  my  hand  will  rather 
The  multitudinous  seas  incarnardine, 
Making  the  green — one  red. 

Re-enter  Lady  MACBETH. 

Lady  M.  My  hands  are  of  your  color ;  but  I  shame 
To  wear  a  heart  so  white. — [Knock.] — I  hear  a  knocking 
At  the  south  entry : — retire  we  to  our  chamber. 
A  little  water  clears  us  of  this  deed : 
How  easy  is  it  then  ?  Your  constancy 

Hath  left  you  unattended. — [Knocking.] — Hark  !  more  knocking . 
Get  on  your  nightgown,  lest  occasion  call  us. 
And  show  us  to  be  watchers : — Be  not  lost 
So  poorly  in  your  thoughts. 

Macb.  To  know  my  deed,— 'twere  best  not  know  myself.  [Knock 
Wake  Duncan  with  thy  knocking  ;  Ay,  'would  thou  could'st ! 

[  Exeunt 

Enter  MACDUFF,  LENOX,  and  Porter. 
Macd.  Was  it  so  late,  friend,  ere  you  went  to  bed, 
That  you  do  lie  so  late  ? 


94  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Port.  'Faith,  sir,  we  were  carousing  till  the  second  cock. 
Macd.  Is  thy  master  stirring  ? — 
Our  knocking  has  awak'd  him ;  here  he  comes. 

Enter  MACBETH. 

Len.  Good-morrow,  noble  sir ! 

Macb.  Good-morrow,  both  ! 

Macd.  Is  the  king  stirring,  worthy  thane  ? 

Macb.  Not  yet. 

Macd.  He  did  command  me  to  call  timely  on  him  : 
I  have  almost  slipp'd  the  hour. 

Macb.  I'll  bring  you  to  him. 

Macd.  I  know,  this  is  a  joyful  trouble  to  you  ; 
But  vet,  'tis  one. 

Macb.  The  labor  we  delight  in,  physics  pain. 
This  is  the  door. 

Macd.  I'll  make  so  bold  to  call, 

For  'tis  my  limited  service.  \Exrd  MACIUFF 

Len.  Goes  the  king 

From  hence  to-day  ? 

Macb.  He  does  : — he  did  appoint  so. 

Len.  The  night  has  been  unruly :  Where  we  lay, 
Our  chimneys  were  blown  down  :  and,  as  they  say, 
Lamentings  heard  i'  the  air  ;  strange  screams  of  death ; 
And  prophesying,  with  accents  terrible, 
Of  dire  cumbustion,  and  confus'd  events, 
New  hatch'd  to  the  woeful  time.     The  obscure  bird 
Clamor'd  the  livelong  night :  some  say,  the  earth 
Was  feverish,  and  did  shake. 

Macb.  'Twas  a  rough  night. 

Len.  My  young  remembrance  cannot  parallel 
A  fellow  to  it. 

Re-enter  MACDUFF. 

Macd.  O  horror  !  horror  !  horror !  Tongue,  nor  heart, 
Cannot  conceive,  nor  name  thee  ! 

Macb.  Len.  What's  the  matter  ? 

Macd.  Confusion  now  hath  made  his  master-piece  ! 
Most  sacrilegious  murder  hath  broke  ope 
The  Lord's  anointed  temple,  and  stole  thence 
The  life  o'  the  building. 

Macb.  What  is't  you  say  ?  the  life  ? 

Len.  Mean  you  his  majesty  ? 

Macd.  Approach  the  chamber,  and  destroy  your  sight 
Wi    a  new  Gorgon : — Do  not  bid  me  speak ; 
See,  and  then  speak  yourselves. — Awake  !  awake  ! — 

[Exeunt  MACBETH  and  LENOX 
Ring  the  alarum-bell : — Murder !  and  treason  ! 
Banquo,  and  Donalbain  !  Malcolm  !  awake ! 


MACBETH.  95 

Shake  off  this  downy  sleep,  death's  counterfeit, 
And  look  on  death  itself! — up,  up,  and  see 

The  great  doom's  image Malcolm  !  Banquo ! 

As  from  your  graves  rise  up,  and  walk  like  sprights, 

To  countenance  this  horror !  [Bell  rings* 

0  Banquo !  Banquo  ! 

Enter  BANQUO. 
Our  royal  master's  murder'd ! 

Re-enter  MACBETH  and  LENOX. 

Macb.  Had  I  but  died  an  hour  before  this  chance, 

1  had  lived  a  blessed  time  ;  for,  from  this  instant, 
There's  nothing  serious  in  mortality : 

All  is  but  toys  :  renown,  and  grace,  is  dead ; 
The  wine  of  life  is  drawn,  and  the  mere  lees 
Is  left  this  vault  to  brag  of. 

Enter  MALCOLM  and  DONALBAIH. 

Don.  What  is  amiss  ? 

Macb,  You  are,  and  do  not  know 

The  spring,  the  head,  the  fountain  of  your  blood 
Is  stopp'd ;  the  very  source  of  it  is  stopp'd. 

Macd.  Your  royal  father 's  murder'd. 

Mai.  O,  by  whom  ? 

Len.  Those  of  his  chamber,  as  it  seem'd,  had  done't : 
Their  hands  and  faces  were  all  badg'd  with  blood, 
So  were  their  daggers,  which,  unwip'd,  we  found 
Upon  their  pillows : 

They  star'd,  and  were  distracted  ;  no  man's  life 
Was  to  be  trusted  with  them. 

Macb.  O,  yet  I  do  repent  me  of  my  fury, 
That  I  did  kill  them. 

Macd.  Wherefore  did  you  so  ? 

Macb.  Who  can  be  wise,  amaz'd,  temperate,  and  furioas, 
Loyal  and  neutral,  in  a  moment  ?     No  man  : 
The  expedition  of  my  violent  love 
Out-ran  the  pauser  reason. — Here  lay  Duncan, 
His  silver  skin  lac'd  with  his  golden  blood  ; 
And  his  gash'd  stabs  look'd  like  a  breach  in  nature 
For  ruin's  wasteful  entrance  :  there,  the  murderers, 
Steep'd  in  the  colors  of  their  trade,  their  daggers 
Unmannerly  breech'd  with  Tore  :  Who  could  refrain, 
That  had  a  heart  to  love,  and  in  that  heart 
Courage  to  make  his  love  known  ? 

Ban.  Fears  and  scruples  shake  us : 
In  the  great  hand  of  Heaven  I  stand ;  and,  thence, 
Against  the  undivulg'd  pretence  I  fight 
Of  treasonous  malice. 


96  SHAKSPEARIAN   READER. 

Macb.  And  so  do  I. 

AIL  So  all. 

Macb.  Let's  briefly  put  on  manly  readiness, 
And  meet  i'  the  hall  together. 

AIL  Well  contented*.  [Exeunt  all  but  MAL.  and  Dos. 

Mai.  What  will  you  do  ?     Let's  not  consort  with  them  : 
To  show  an  unfelt  sorrow  is  an  office 
Which  the  false  man  does  easy  :  I'll  to  England. 

Don.  To  Ireland,  I ;  our  separate  fortune 
Shall  keep  us  both  the  safer  :  where  we  are, 
There's  daggers  in  men's  smiles  :  the  near  in  blood, 
The  nearer  bloody. 

Mai.  This  murderous  shaft  that's  shot, 

Hath  not  yet  lighted  ;  and  our  safest  way 
Is,  to  avoid  the  aim.     Therefore  to  horse  ; 
And  let  us  not  be  dainty  of  leave-taking, 
But  shift  away ;  There's  warrant  in  that  theft 
Which  steals  itself,  when  there's  no  mercy  left.  •  [Exeunt 

The  King's  two  sons,  Malcolm  and  Donalbain,  fly  to  England,  and  Macbeth  is  crowned 
king  of  Scotland  ;  but  fearing  the  prediction  of  the  witches,  that  Banquo's  issue  should 
he  king,  he  employs  "  two  murderers,"  to  assassinate  Banquo  and  Uis  son  Fleance. 

The  consequences  of  guilty  ambition  aie  finely  portrayed  in  the  following  scene. 

ACT  III. 

SCENE  II.— The  same.     Another  Room. 
Enter  Lady  MACBETH,  and  a  Servant. 

Lady  M.  Is  Banquo  gone  from  court  ? 

Serv.  Ay,  madam,  but  returns  again  to-night. 

Lady  M.  Say  tojthe  king,  I  would  attend  his  leisure 
For  a  few  words. 

Serv.  Madam,  I  will.  [Exit. 

Lady  M.  Nought's  had,  all's  spent, 

Where  our  desire  is  got  without  content : 
'Tis  safer  to  be  that  which  we  destroy, 
Than,  by  destruction,  dwell  in  doubtful  joy. 

Enter  MACBETH. 

How  now,  my  lord  ?  why  do  you  keep  alone, 
Of  sorriest  fancies  your  companions  making  ? 
Using  those  thoughts,  which  should  indeed  have  died 
With  them  they  think  on  ?     Things  without  remedy 
Should  be  without  regard  :  what's  done,  is  done. 

Macb.  We  have  scotch'd  the  snake,  not  kill'd  it ; 
She'll  close,  and  be  herself;  whilst  our  poor  malice 
Remains  in  danger  of  her  former  tooth. 


MACBETH.  97 

But  let 

The  frame  of  things  disjoint,  both  the  worlds  suffer, 

Ere  we  will  eat  our  meal  in  fear,  and  sleep 

In  the  affliction  of  these  terrible  dreams, 

That  shake  us  nightly  :  better  be  with  the  dead, 

Whom  we,  to  gain  our  place,  have  sent  to  peace, 

Than  on  the  torture  of  the  mind  to  lie 

In  restless  ecstasy.     Duncan  is  in  his  grave ; 

After  life's  fitful  fever,  he  sleeps  well ; 

Treason  has  done  his  worst :  nor  steel,  nor  poison, 

Malice  domestic,  foreign  levy,  nothing, 

Can  touch  him  further  ! 

Lady  M.  Come  on ; 

Gentle,  my  lord,  sleek  o'er  your  rugged  looks  ; 
"Re  bright  and  jovial  'mong  your  guests  to-night. 

Macb.  So  shall  I,  love  ;  and  so,  I  pray,  be  you  : 
Let  your  remembrance  apply  to  Banquo ; 
Present  him  eminence,  both  with  eye  and  tongue  : 
Unsafe  the  while,  that  we 

Must  lave  our  honors  in  these  flattering  streams  ; 
And  make  our  faces  vizards  to  our  hearts, 
Disguising  what  they  are. 

Lady  M.  You  must  leave  this. 

Macb.  O,  full  of  scorpions  is  my  mind,  dear  wife  ! 
Thou  know'st,  that  Banquo,  and  his  Fleance,  lives. 

Lady  M.  But  in  them  nature's  copy's  not  eterne. 

Macb.     There's  comfort  yet ;  they  are  assailable  ; 
Then  be  thou  jocund  :  Ere  the  bat  hath  flown 
His  cloistered  flight ;  ere,  to  black  Hecate's  summons, 
The  shard-borne  beetle,-  with  his  drowsy  hums, 
}iath  rung  night's  yawning  peal,  there  shall  be  done 
A  docd  of  dreadful  note. 

Lady  M.  What's  to  be  done  ? 

Macb.  Be  innocent  of  the  knowledge,  dearest  chuck, 
Till  tbou  applaud  the  deed.     Come,  seeling  night, 
Skarf  up  the  tender  eye  of  pitiful  day ; 
And,  with  thy  bloody  and  invisible  hand, 
Cancel,  and  tear  to  pieces,  that  great  bond 
Which  keeps  me  pale  ! — Light  thickens  ;  and  the  crow 
Makes  wing  to  the  rooky  wood: 
Good  things  of  day  begin  to  droop  and  drowse  ; 
Whiles  night's  black  agents  to  their  prey  do  rouse. 
Thou  marvell'st  at  my  words  :  but  hold  thee  still ; 
Things  bad  begun,  make  strong  themselves  by  ill : 
So  pray  thee,  go  with  me.  ^Exeunt, 

Banquo  and  Fleance  on  their  return  to  the  Palace,  are  attacked  by  "  ihe  murderers  •* 
Bin  quo  is  slain,  but  Fleance  escapes. 


y 


98  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

SCENE  IV.— A  Room  of  State  in  the  Palace.    A  Banquet 
prepared. 

Enter  MACBETH,  Lady  MACBETH,  ROSSE,  LENOX,  Lords,  ajid 
Attendants. 

Macb.  You  know  your  own  degrees,  sit  down :  at  first 
And  last,  the  hearty  welcome. 

Lords.  Thanks  to  your  majesty. 

Macb.  Ourself  will  mingle  with  society, 
And  play  the  humble  host. 
Our  hostess  keeps  her  state  ;  but,  in  best  time, 
We  will  require  her  welcome. 

Lady  M.  Pronounce  it  for  me,  sir,  to  all  my  friends ; 
For  my  heart  speaks  they  are  welcome. 

Enter  first  Murderer,  to  the  door. 

Macb.  See,  they  encounter  thee  with  their  hearts'  thanks :— • 
Both  sides  are  even  :  Here  I'll  sit  i'  the  midst : 
Be  large  in  mirth  ;  anon,  we'll  drink  a  measure 
The  table  round. — There's  blood  upon  thy  face. 

Mur.  'Tis  Banquo's  then. 

Macb.  'Tis  better  thee  without,  than  he  within. 
Is  he  dispatch'd  ? 

Mur.  My  lord,  his  throat  is  cut ;  that  I  did  for  him. 

Macb.  Thou  art  the  best  o'  the  cut-throats  :  Yet  he's  good,  ' 
That  did  the  like  for  Fleance :  if  thou  didst  it, 
Thou  art  the  nonpareil. 

Mur.  Most  royal  sir, 

Fleance  is  'scap'd. 

Macb.  Then  comes  my  fit  again :  I  had  else  been  perfect ; 
Whole  as  the  marble,  founded  as  the  rock  ; 
As  broad,  and  general,  as  the  casing  air  : 
But  now,  I  am  cabin'd,  cribb'd,  confin'd,  bound  in 
To  saucy  doubts  and  fears.     But  Banquo's  safe  ? 

Mur.  Ay,  my  good  lord  :  safe  in  a  ditch  he  bides, 
With  twenty  trenched  gashes  on  his  head  ; 
The  least  a  death  to  nature. 

Macb.  Thanks  for  that : 

There  the  grown  serpent  lies  ;  the  worm,  that's  fled, 

Hath  nature  that  in  time  will  venom  breed, 

No  teeth  for  the  present. — Get  thee  gone  :  to-morrow 

We'll  hear,  ourselves  again.  [Exit  Muroerei 

Lady  M.  My  royal  lord. 

You  do  not  give  the  cheer ;  the  feast  is  sold, 
That  is  not  often  vouch'd,  while  'tis  a  making, 
'Tis  given  with  welcome  :  To  feed,  were  best  at  home ; 
From  thence,  the  sauce  to  meat  is  ceremony, 
Meeting  were  bare  without  it. 

Macb.  Sweet  remembrancer  ! — 


MACBETH,  99 

Now,  good  digestion  wait  on  appetite, 
And  health  on  both  ! 

Len.  May  it  please  your  highness  sit  ? 

[  The  Gliost  of  BANQUO  rises.,  and  sits  in  MACBETH'S  place* 

Mad.  Here  had  we  now  our  country's  honor  roof  d, 
Weie  the  grac'd  person  of  our  Banquo  present ; 
Who  may  I  rather  challenge  for  unkindness 
Than  pity  for  mischance  ! 

Rosse.  His  absence,  sir, 

Lays  blame  upon  his  promise.     Please  it  your  highness 
To  grace  us  with  your  royal  company  ? 

Macb.  The  table's  full. 

Len.  Here's  a  place  reserv'd,  sir 

Macb.  Where? 

Len.  Here,  my  lord.     What  is't  that  moves  your  highness  ? 

Macb.  Which  of  you  have  done  this  ? 

Lords.  What,  my  good  lord  ? 

Macb.  Thou  canst  not  say,  I  did  it :  never  shake 
f  hy  gory  locks  at  me. 

Rosse.  Gentlemen,  rise  ;  his  highness  is  not  well. 

Lady  M.  Sit,  worthy  friends  : — my  lord  is  often  thus, 
And  hath  been  from  his  youth : — 'pray  you,  keep  seat ; 
The  fit  is  momentary  ;  upon  a  thought 
He  will  again  be  well ;  If  much  you  note  him, 
You  shall  offend  him,  and  extend  his  passion ; 
Feed,  and  regard  him  not. — Are  you  a  man  ? 

Macb.  Ay,  and  a  bold  one,  that  dare  look  on  that 
Which  might  appal  the  devil. 

Lady  M.  O  proper  stuff! 

This  is  the  very  painting  of  your  fear : 
This  is  the  air-drawn  dagger,  which,  you  said, 
Led  you  to  Duncan.     O,  these  flaws,  and  starts, 
(Impostors  to  true  fear)  would  well  become 
4-  woman's  story,  at  a  winter's  fire, 
Authoriz'd  by  her  grandam.     Shame  itself! 
Why  do  you  make  such  faces  ?     When  all 's  done, 
You  look  but  on  a  stool. 

Macb.  Pr'ythee,  see  there  !  behold  !  look !  lo !  how  say  you  ? 
Why,  what  care  I  ?    If  thou  canst  nod,  speak  too. — 
If  charnel-houses,  and  our  graves,  must  send 
Those  that  we  bury,  back,  our  monuments 
Shall  be  the  maws  of  kites.  [Ghost  disappears 

Lady  M.  What !  quite  unmann'd  in  folly  ? 

Macb.  If  I  stand  here,  I  saw  him. 

Lady  M.  Fye,  for  shame  ! 

Macb.  Blood  hath  been  shed  ere  now,  i'  the  olden  time, 
Ere  human  statute  purg'd  the  gentle  weal ; 
Ay,  and  since  too,  murders  have  been  perform'd 
Too  terrible  for  the  ear  :  the  times  have  been, 


1(K)  SHAKS?EARIAN    READER. 

That,  when  the  brains  were  out,  the  man  would  die, 
And  there  an  end :  but  now,  they  rise  again, 
With  twenty  mortal  murders  on  their  crowns, 
And  push  us  from  our  stools  :  This  is  more  strange 
Than  such  a  murder  is. 

Lady  M.  '  My  worthy  lord, 

Your  noble  friends  do  lack  you. 

Macb.  I  do  forget : — 

Do  not  muse  at  me,  my  most  worthy  friends  • 
I  have  a  strange  infirmity,  which  is  nothing 
To  those  that  know  me.    Come,  love  and  health  to  all 
Then  I'll  sit  down  : — Give  me  some  wine,  fill  full : — 
I  drink  to  the  general  joy  of  the  whole  table,  [Ghost  risss, 

And  to  our  dear  friend  Banquo,  whom  we  miss  ; 
Would  he  were  here  !  to  all,  and  him,  we  thirst, 
And  all  to  all. 

Lords.  Our  duties,  and  the  pledge. 

Macb.  Avaunt !  and  quit  my  sight !     Let  the  earth  .lide  thee  ! 
Thy  bones  are  marrowless,  thy  blood  is  cold  ; 
Thou  hast  no  speculation  in  those  eyes 
Which  thou  dost  glare  with  ! 

Lady  M.  Think  of  this,  good  peers, 

But  as  a  thing  of  custom  :  'tis  no  other ; 
Only  it  spoils  the  pleasure  of  the  time. 

Macb.  What  man  dare,  I  dare  : 
Approach  thou  like  the  rugged  Russian  bear, 
The  arm'd  rhinoceros,  01  the  Hyrcan  tiger, 
Take  any  shape  but  that,  and  my  firm  nerves 
Shall  never  tremble  :  Or,  be  alive  again, 
And  dare  me  to  the  desert  with  thy  sword  ; 
If  trembling  I  inhibit  thee,  protest  me 

The  baby  of  a  girl.     Hence,  horrible  shadow  !       [Ghost  disappear* 
Unreal  mockery,  hence  ! — Why,  so  ; — being  gone, 
I  am  a  man  again. — Pray  you,  sit  still. 

Lady  M.  You  have  displac'd  the  mirth,  broke  the  good  meeting, 
With  most  admir'd  disorder. 

Macb.  Can  such  things  be, 

And  overcome  us  like  a  summer's  cloud, 
Without  our  special  wonder  1    You  make  me  strange 
Even  to  the  disposition  that  I  owe, 
When  now  I  think  you  can  behold  such  sights, 
And  keep  the  natural  ruby  of  your  cheeks, 
When  mine  are  blanch'd  with  fear. 

Rosse.  What  sights,  my  lord  1 

Lady  M.  I  pray  you,  speak  not ;  he  grows  worse  and  worse ; 
Question  enrages  him  :  at  once,  good-night : — 
Stand  not  upon  the  order  of  your  going, 
But  go  at  once. 


101 

Len.  Good-night,  and  better  health 

Attend  his  majesty ! 

Lady  M.  A  kind  good-night  to  all ! 

[Exeunt  Lords  and  Attendants, 

Macb.  It  will  have  blood  ;  they  say,  blood  will  have  blood : 
Stones  have  been  known  to  move,  and  trees  to  speak ; 
Augurs,  and  understood  relations,  have 
By  magot-pies,  and  choughs,  and  rooks,  brought  forth 
The  secret'st  man  of  blood. — What  is  the  night  ? 

Lady  M.  Almost  at  odds  with  morning,  which  is  which. 

Macb.  How  say'st  thou,  that  Macduff  denies  his  person, 
At  our  great  bidding  ? 

Lady  M.  Did  you  send  to  him,  sir  ? 

Macb.  I  hear  it  by  the  way :  but  I  will  send  : 
There  's  not  a  one  of  them,  but  in  his  house 
I  keep  a  servant  fee'd.     I  will  to-morrow, 
(Betimes  I  will,)  unto  the  weird  sisters : 
More  shall  they  speak ;  for  now  I  am  bent  to  know, 
By  the  worst  means,  the  worst :  for  mine  own  good, 
All  causes  shall  give  way ;  I  am  in  blood 
Stept  in  so  far,  that,  should  I  wade  no  more, 
Returning  were  as  tedious  as  go  o'er : 
Strange  things  I  have  in  head,  that  will  to  hand ; 
Which  must  be  acted,  ere  they  may  be  scann'd. 

Lady  M.  You  lack  the  season  of  all  natures,  sleep. 

Macb.  Come,  we'll  to  sleep :  My  strange  and  self-abuse 
Is  the  initiate  fear  that  wants  hard  use  : — 
We  are  yet  but  young  in  deed.  [Exeunt 

SCENE  V.—The  Heath.     Thunder. 
Enter  HECATE,  meeting  the  three  Witches. 

1st  Witch.  Why,  how  now,  Hecate  ?  you  look  angerly. 

Hec.  Have  I  not  reason,  beldams  as  you  are, 
Saucy,  and  over-bold  ?     How  did  you  dare 
To  trade  and  traffic  with  Macbeth, 
In  riddles,  and  affairs  of  death  ; 
And  I,  the  mistress  of  your  charms, 
The  close  contriver  of  all  harms, 
Was  never  call'd  to  bear  my  part, 
Or  show  the  glory  of  our  art  ? 
And,  which  is  worse,  all  you  have  done, 
Hath  been  but  for  a  wayward  son, 
Spiteful  and  wrathful ;  who,  as  others  do, 
Loves  for  his  own  ends,  not  for  you. 
But  make  amends  now  :  Get  you  gone, 
And  at  the  pit  of  Acheron 
Meet  me  i'  the  morning ;  thither  he 
Will  come  to  know  his  destiny. 


102-  SHUkstSoLaiu*  READEH 

Your  vessels,  and  /ear  spells,  provide, 
Your  charms,  and  every  thing  bes.de : 
I  am  for  the  air ;  this  night  I'll  spend 
Unto  a  dismal-fatal  end. 
Great  business  must  be  wrought  ere  noon  ', 
Upon  the  corner  of  the  moon 
There  hangs  a  vaporous  drop  profound ; 
I'll  catch  it  ere  it  come  to  ground : 
And  that,  distilFd  by  magic  slights, 
Shall  raise  such  artificial  sprights, 
\s,  by  the  strength  of  their  illusion, 
Shall  draw  him  on  to  his  confusion  ; 
He  shall  spurn  faith,  scorn  death,  and  bear 
His  hopes  'bove  wisdom,  grace,  and  fear  : 
And  you  all  know,  security 
Is  mortal's  chiefest  enemy. 

SONG.  [  Within.]   Come  away,  come  away,  &c. 
Hark,  I  am  call'd ;  my  little  spirit,  see, 
Sits  in  a  foggy  cloud,  and  stays  for  me.  [Exit. 

1st  Witch.  Come,  let's  make  haste  :  she'll  soon  be  back  again. 

[Exeunt. 

Macbeth  seeks  the  "  weird  sisters"  or  witches,  at  "  the  Pit  of  Acheron,"  and  adjurei 
them  to  Declare  his  fate.  The  witches,  by  their  incantations,  raise  up  spirits  who  warn 
Macbeth,  to  "  Beware  Macduff."  He  is  then  assured  that 

"none  of  woman  born  shall  harm  Macbeth," 

and  that 

"  Macbeth  shall  never  vanquished  be,  until 
Great  Birnam  wood  to  high  Dunsinane  hill 
Shall  come  against  him." 

He  is  also  shown  a  line  of  Eight  Kings,  who  are  the  issue  of  Banquo. 

Macleth,  acting  upon  the  caution  of  the  witches,  surprises  the  Castle  of  Macduff,  and 
puts  to  the  sword  Lady  Macduff,  and  all  her  children  ;  Macduff  being  absent  ia  England 
on  a  visi.  to  young  Malcolm. 

FCENE  III.— England.     A  Room  in  the  King's  Palace. 
Enter  MALCOLM  and  MACDUFF. 

Mai.  Let  us  seek  out  some  desolate  shade,  and  there 
Weep  our  sad  bosoms  empty. 

Macd.  Let  us  rather 

Hold  fast  the  mortal  sword  ;  and,  like  good  men, 
Bestriue  our  down-fall'n  birthdom :  Each  new  morn, 
New  widows  howl ;  new  orphans  cry ;  new  sorrows 
Strike  heaven  on  the  face,  that  it  resounds 
As  if  it  felt  with  Scotland,  and  yell'd  out 
Like  reliable  of  dolor. 

Mai  What  I  believe,  I'll  wail ; 

What  know,  believe ;  and,  what  I  can  redress, 
4s  I  shall  find  the  time  to  friend,  I  will. 


MACBETH.  103 

What  you  have -spoke,  it  may  be  so,  perchance. 

This  tyrant,  whose  sole  name  blisters  our  tongues, 

Was  once  thought  honest ;  you  have  lov'd  him  well ; 

He  hath  not  touch'd  you  yet.     I  am  young,  but  something 

You  may  deserve  of  him  through  me  ;  and  wisdom 

To  offer  up  a  weak,  poor  innocent  lamb, 

To  appease  an  angry  god. 

Macd.  I  am  not  treacherous. 

Mai.  But  Macbeth  is. 

A  good  and  virtuous  nature  may  recoil, 
In  an  imperial  charge.     But  'crave  your  pardon ; 
That  which  you  are,  my  thoughts  cannot  transpose : 
Angels  are  bright  still,  though  the  brightest  fell : 
Though  all  things  foul  would  wear  the  brows  of  grace, 
Yet  grace  must  still  look  so. 

Macd.  I  have  lost  my  hopes. 

Mai.  Perchance,  even  there,  where  I  did  find  my  doubts. 
Why  in  that  rawness  left  you  wife,  and  child, 
(Those  precious  motives,  those  strong  knots  of  love,) 
Without  leave-taking  ? — I  pray  you 
Let  not  my  jealousies  be  your  dishonors. 
But  mine  own  safeties  : — You  may  be  rightly  just, 
Whatever  I  shall  think. 

Macd.  Bleed,  bleed,  poor  country  ! 

Great  tyranny,  lay  thou  thy  basis  sure, 
For  goodness  dares  not  check  thee  !  wear  thou  thy  wrongs, 
Thy  title  is  affeer'd.*— Fare  thee  well,  lord  : 
I  would  not  be  the  villain  that  thou  think'st 
For  the  whole  space  that's  in  the  tyrant's  grasp, 
And  the  rich  East  to  boot. 

Mai  Be  not  offended : 

I  speak  not  as  in  absolute  fear  of  you. 
I  think,  our  country  sinks  beneath  the  yoke ; 
It  weeps,  it  bleeds :  and  each  new  day  a  gash 
Is  added  to  her  wounds :  I  think,  withal, 
There  would  be  hands  uplifted  in  my  right ; 
And  here,  from  gracious  England,  have  I  offer 
Of  goodly  thousands  :  But,  for  all  this, 
When  I  shall  tread  upon  the  tyrant's  head, 
Or  wear  it  on  my  sword,  yet  my  poor  country 
Shall  have  more  vices  than  it  had  before ; 
More  suffer,  and  more  sundry  ways  than  ever, 
By  him  that  shall  succeed. 

Macd.  What  should  he  be  ? 

Mai.  It  is  myself  I  mean :  in  whom  I  know 
All  the  particulars  of  vice  so  grafted, 
That,  when  they  shall  be  open'd,  black  Macbeth 
Will  seem  as  pure  as  snow  ;  and  the  poor  state 

*  Confirmed. 


1 04  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER , 

Esteem  him  as  a  lamb,  being  compar'd 

With  my  confineless  harms.     Nay,  had  I  power,  \  should 

Uproar  the  universal  peace,  confound 

All  unity  on  earth. 

Macd.  O  Scotland !  Scotland  ! 

Mai.  If  such  a  one  be  fit  to  govern,  speak : 
I  am  as  I  have  spoken. 

Macd.  Fit  to  govern  ! 

No,  not  to  live. — O  nation  miserable, 
With  an  untitled  tyrant,  bloody-scepter'd, 
When  shalt  thou  see  thy  wholesome  days  again  ? 
Since  that  the  truest  issue  of  thy  throne 
By  his  own  interdiction  stands  accurs'd, 
And  does  blaspheme  his  breed  ? — Thy  royal  father 
Was  a  most  sainted  king :  the  queen  that  bore  thee, 
Oft'ner  upon  her  knees  than  on  her  feet, 
Died  every  day  she  liv'd.     Fare  thee  well ! 
These  evils  thou  repeat'st  upon  thyself, 
Have  banish'd  me  from  Scotland. — O,  my  breast, 
Thy  hope  entSs  here  ! 

Mai.  Macduff,  this  noble  passion, 

Child  of  integrity,  hath  from  my  soul 
Wip'd  the  black  scruples,  reconcil'd  my  thoughts 
To  thy  good  truth  and  honor.     Heaven  above 
Deal  between  thee  and  me  !  for  even  now 
I  put  myself  to  thy  direction,  and 
Unspeak  mine  own  detraction  ;  here  abjure 
The  taints  and  blames  I  laid  upon  myself, 
For  strangers  to  my  nature :     What  I  am  truly, 
Is  thine,  and  my  poor  country's,  to  command  : 
Whither,  indeed,  before  thy  here-approach, 
Old  Si  ward,  with  ten  thousand  warlike  men, 
All  ready  at  a  point,  was  setting  forth : 
Now  we'll  together ;  And  the  chance,  of  goodness, 
Be  like  our  warranted  quarrel !     Why  are  you  silent  ? 

Macd.  Such  welcome  and  unwelcome  things  at  once, 
'Tis  hard  to  reconcile. 

Enter  ROSSE. 

Macd.  See,  who  comes  here  ? 

Mai.  My  countryman ;  but  yet  I  know  him  not. 

Macd.  My  ever-gentle  cousin,  welcome  hither. 

Mai.  I  know  him  now  :  Good  Heaven,  betimes  remove 
The  means  that  make  us  strangers  ! 

Rosse.  Sir,  Amen. 

Macd.  Stands  Scotland  where  it  did  ? 

Rosse.  Alas,  pooi  country 

Almost  afraid  to  know  itself !     It  cannot 
Be  call'd  our  mother,  but  our  grave  :  where  nothing, 
But  who  knows  nothing,  is  once  seen  to  smile ; 


MACBETH.  105 

Where  sighs,  and  groans,  and  shrieks  that  rent  the  air, 

Are  made,  not  mark'd ;  where  violent  sorrow  seems 

A  modern  ecstasy ;  the  dead  man's  knell 

Is  there  scarce  ask'd,  for  who  ;  and  good  men's  lives 

Expire  before  the  flowers  in  their  caps, 

Dying,  or  ere  they  sicken. 

Macd.  O,  relation, 

Too  nice,  and  yet  too  true  ! 

Mai  What  is  the  newest  grief? 

Rosse.  That  of  an  hour's  age  doth  hiss  the  speaker ; 
Each  minute  teems  a  new  one. 

Macd.  How  does  my  wife  ? 

Rosse.  Why,  well. 

Macd.  And  all  my  children  ? 

Rosse.  Well  too. 

Macd.  The  tyrant  has  not  batter'd  at  their  peace  ? 

Rosse.  No ;  they  were  well  at  peace,  when  I  did  leave  them. 

Macd.  Be  not  a  niggard  of  your  speech  ;  How  goes  it  ? 

Rosse.  When  I  came  hither  to  transport  the  tidings, 
Which  I  have  heavily  borne,  there  ran  a  rumor 
Of  many  worthy  fellows  that  were  out ; 
Which  was  to  my  belief  witness'd  the  rather, 
For  that  I  saw  the  tyrant's  power  a-foot : 
Now  is  the  time  of  help  ;  your  eye  in  Scotland 
Would  create  soldiers,  make  our  women  fight 
To  doff  their  dire  distresses. 

Mai.  Be  it  their  comfort, 

We  are  coming  thither :  gracious  England  hath 
Lent  us  good  Siward,  and  ten  thousand  men : 
An  older,  and  a  better  soldier,  none 
That  Christendom  gives  out. 

Rosse.  'Would  I  could  answer 

This  comfort  with  the  like  !     But  I  have  words, 
That  would  be  howl'd  out  in  the  desert  air, 
Where  hearing  should  not  latch  them. 

Macd.  What  concern  they  I 

The  general  cause  ?  or  is  it  a  fee-grief, 
Due  to  some  single  breast  ? 

Rosse.  No  mind,  that's  honest, 

But  in  it  shares  some  woe  ;  though  the  main  part 
Pertains  to  you  alone. 

Macd.  If  it  be  mine, 

Keep  it  not  from  me,  quickly  let  me  have  it. 

Rosse.  Let  not  your  ears  despise  my  tongue  for  ever, 
Which  shall  possess  them  with  the  heaviest  sound, 
That  ever  yet  they  heard. 

Macd.  Humph !  1  guess  at  it. 

Rosse.  Your  castle  is  surpris'd  ;  your  wife,  and  babes, 
Savagely  slaughter'd :  to  relate  the  manner, 
6* 


106  SHAKSPEARIAN   READER. 

Wore,  on  the  quarry  of  these  murder'd  deer, 
To  adu  the  death  of  you. 

Mai.  Merciful  heaven  ! — 

What,  man  !  ne'er  pull  your  hat  upon  your  brows ; 
Give  sorrow  words  :  the  grief,  that  does  not  speak, 
Whispers  the  o'er-fraught  heart,  and  bids  it  break. 

Macd.  My  children  too  ? 

Ros°e.  Wife,  children,  servants,  a 

That  could  be  found. 

Mard.  And  I  must  be  from  thence  ! 

My  wife  kilPd  too  ? 

Rosse.  1  have  said. 

Mai.  Be  comforted : 

Let's  make  us  med'cines  of  our  great  revenge, 
To  cu»e  this  deadly  grief. 

Macd.  He  has  no  children. — All  my  pretty  ones  ? 
Did  you  say,  all?    All? 
What,  all  my  pretty  chickens,  and  their  dam, 
At  one  fell  swoop  ? 

Mat.  Dispute  it  like  a  man. 

McLd.  I  shall  do  so; 

But  I  must  feel  it  as  a  man  : 
I  cannot  but  remember  such  things  were, 
That  were  most  precious  to  me. — Did  heaven  look  on, 
And  would  not  take  their  part  ?     Sinful  Macduff, 
They  <vere  all  struck  for  thee  !  naught  that  I  am, 
Not  for  their  own  demerits,  but  for  mine, 
Fell  slaughter  on  their  souls  :  Heaven  rest  them  now  ! 

Mai.  Be  this  the  whetstone  of  your  sword :  let  grief 
Convert  to  anger ;  blunt  not  the  heart,  enrage  it. 

Macd.  O,  I  could  play  the  woman  with  mine  eyes, 
And  braggart  with  my  tongue ! — But  gentle  heaven, 
Cut  short  all  intermission  ;  front  to  front, 
Bring  thou  this  fiend  of  Scotland,  and  myself ; 
Within  my  sword's  length  set  him ;  if  he  'scape, 
Heaven  forgive  him  too ! 

Mai.  This  tune  goes  manly. 

Come,  go  we  to  the  king ;  our  power  is  ready; 
Our  lack  is  nothing  but  our  leave :  Macbeth 
Is  ripe  for  shaking,  and  the  powers  above 
Put  on  their  instruments.     Receive  what  cheer  you  may ; 
The  night  is  long,  that  never  finds  the  day.  [Exeunt 


ACT  V. 

The  action  changes  to  Dunsinane,  where  the  English  powers,  led  on  by  Young 
Malcolm,  Siward,  and  Macduff,  are  joined  by  the  loyal  Scotch.  The  united  forces 
march  towards  Dunsinane  Castle  to  attack  Macbeth. 


MACBETH.  107 

SCENE  III. — Dunsinane.    A  Room  in  the  Castle. 
Enter  MACBETH,  Doctor,  and  Attendants. 

Macb.  Bring  me  no  more  reports  ;  let  them  fly  all ; 
Till  Birnam  wood  remove  to  Dunsinane, 
I  cannot  taint  with  fear.     Then  fly,  false  thanes, 
And  mingle  with  the  English  epicures : 
The  mind  I  sway  by,  and  the  heart  I  bear, 
Shall  never  sagg  with  doubt,  nor  shake  with  fear. 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Thou  cream-fac'd  loon. 

Where  got'st  thou  that  goose  look  ? 

Serv.  There  is  ten  thousand 

Macb.  Geese,  villain  ? 

Serv.  Soldiers,  sir. 

Macb.  What  soldiers,  patch  ? 
Death  of  thy  soul !  those  linen  cheeks  of  thine 
Are  counsellors  to  fear.     What  soldiers,  whey-face  ? 

Serv.  The  English  force,  so  please  you. 

Macb.  Take  thy  face  hence. — Seyton  ! — I  am  sick  at  heart. 
When  1  behold — Seyton,  I  say ! — This  push 
Will  cheer  me  ever,  or  disseat  me  now. 
I  have  Uv'd  long  enough :  my  way  of  life 
Is  fall'n  into  the  sear,  the  yellow  leaf : 
And  that  which  should  accompany  old  age, 
As  honor,  love,  obedience,  troops  of  friends, 
I  must  not  look  to  have ;  but,  in  their  stead, 
Curses  not  loud,  but  deep,  mouth-honor,  breath, 
Which  the  poor  heart  would  fain  deny,  but  dare  not. 

Seyton  I 

Enter  SEYTON. 

Sey.  What  is  your  gracious  pleasure  ? 

Macb.  What  news  more  . 

Sey.  All  is  confirm'd,  my  lord,  which  was  reported. 

Macb.  I'll  fight,  till  from  my  bones  my  flesh  be  hack'd, 
Give  me  my  armor. 

Sey.  'Tis  not  needed  yet. 

Macb.  I'll  put  it  on. 

Send  out  more  horses,  skirr  the  country  round ; 
Hang  those  that  talk  of  fear. — Give  ire  mine  armor,— 
How  does  your  patient,  doctor  ? 

Doct.  Not  so  sick,  my  lov 

As  she  is  troubled  with  thick-coming  fancies, 
That  keep  her  from  her  rest. 

Macb.  Cure  her  of  that : 

Canst  thou  not  minister  to  a  mind  diseas'd  ; 
Pluck  from  the  memory  a  rooted  sorrow ; 


109  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Raze  out  the  written  troubles  of  the  brain ; 
And,  with  some  sweet  oblivious  antidote, 
Cleanse  the  stuff'd  bosom  of  that  perilous  stuff, 
Which  weighs  upon  the  heart  ? 

Doct.  Therein  the  patient 

Must  minister  to  himself. 

Mad).  Throw  physic  to  the  dogs,  I'll  none  of  it. — 
Come,  put  mine  armor  on  ;  give  me  my  staff: — 
Seyton,  send  out. — Doctor,  the  thanes  fly  from  me  : — 
Come,  sir,  dispatch  : — If  thou  could'st,  doctor,  cast 
The  water  of  my  land,  find  her  disease, 
And  purge  it  to  a  sound  and  pristine  health, 
I  would  applaud  thee  to  the  very  echo, 
That  should  applaud  again. — 
What  rhubarb,  senna,  or  what  purgative  drug, 
Would  scour  these  English  hence  ?     Hearest  thou  of  t"iem  T 

Doct.  Ay,  my  good  lord  ;  your  royal  preparation 
Makes  us  hear  something. 

Macb.  Bring  it  after  me. — 

I  will  not  be  afraid  of  death  and  bane,  * 

Till  Birnam  forest  come  to  Dunsinane.  [Exit, 

SCENE  IV. 
Country  near  Dunsinane  :  A  Wood  in  view. 

Enter,  with  drums  and  colors,  MALCOLM,  old  SIWARD,  and  liis  Son, 
MACDUFF,  MENTETH,  CATHNESS,  ANGUS,  LENOX,  ROSSE,  ana 
Soldiers,  marching. 

Mai.  Cousins,  I  hope,  the  days  are  near  at  hand, 
That  chambers  will  be  safe. 

Ment.  We  doubt  it  nothing. 

Siio.  What  wood  is  this  before  us  ? 

Ment.  The  wood  of  Birnam. 

Mai.  Let  every  soldier  hew  him  down  a  bough, 
And  bear't  before  him  ;  thereby  shall  we  shadow 
The  numbers  of  our  host,  and  make  discovery 
Err  in  report  of  us. 

Sold.  It  shall  be  done. 

Siw.  We  learn  no  other,  but  the  confident  tyrant 
Keeps  still  in  Dunsinane,  and  will  endure 
Our  setting  down  before 't. 

Mai.  'Tis  his  main  hope  : 

For  where  there  is  advantage  to  be  given, 
Both  more  and  less  have  given  him  the  revolt ; 
And  none  serve  with  him  but  constrained  things, 
Whose  hearts  are  absent  too. 

Macd.  Let  our  just  censures 

Attend  the  true  event,  and  put  we  on 
Industrious  soldiership. 


MACBETH.  '    109 

Siw.  The  time  approaches, 

That  will  with  duo  decison  make  us  know 
What  we  shall  say  we  have,  and  what  we  owe 
Thoughts  speculative  their  unsure  hopes  relate  • 
But  certain  issue  strokes  must  arbitrate  : 
Towards  which,  advance  the  war.  [Exeunt,  marching 

SCENE  V.— Dunsinane.     Within  the  Castle. 

Enter,  with  drums  and  colors,  MACBETH,  SEYTON,  and  Soldiers. 

Macb.  Hang  out  our  banners  on  the  outward  walls  ; 
The  cry  is  still,  They  come :  Our  castle's  strength 
Will  laugh  a  siege  to  scorn  :  here  let  them  lie, 
Till  famine,  and  the  ague,  eat  them  up  ; 
Were  they  not  forc'd  with  those  that  should  be  ours, 
We  might  have  met  them  dareful,  beard  to  beard, 
And  beat  them  backward  home.     What  is  that  noise  ? 


Sey.  It  is  the  cry  of  women,  my  good 

Macb.  I  have  almost  forgot  the  taste  of  fears  : 
The  time  has  been,  my  senses  would  have  cool'd 
To  hear  a  night-shriek ;  and  my  fell  of  hair 
Would  at  a  dismal  treatise  rouse,  and  stir 
As  life  were  in't :  I  have  supp'd  full  with  horrors  ; 
Direness,  familiar  to  my  slaught'rous  thoughts. 
Cannot  once  start  me.— Wherefore  was  that  cry  ? 

*Sey.  The  queen,  my  lord,  is  dead. 

Macb.  She  should  have  died  hereafter ; 
There  would  have  been  a  time  for  such  a  word. — 
To-morrow,  and  to-morrow,  and  to-morrow 
Creeps  in  this  petty  pace  from  day  to  day, 
"To  the  last  syllable  of  recorded  time ; 
-And  all  our  yesterdays  have  lighted  fools 
The  way  to  dusty  death.     Out,  out,  brief  candle  ! 
Life's  but  a  walking  shadow  ;  a  poor  player, 
That  struts  and  frets  his  hour  upon  the  stage, 
And  then  is  heard  no  more  :  it  is  a  tale 
Told  by  an  idiot,  full  of  sound  and  fury, 
Signifying  nothing.— 

Enter  a  Messenger. 
Thou  com'st  to  use  thy  tongue  ;  thy  story  quickly 

Mess.  Gracious  my  lord, 
I  shall  report  that  which  I  say  I  saw, 
But  know  not  how  to  do  it. 

Mad.  Well,  say,  sir. 

Mess.  As  I  did  stand  my  watch  upon  the  hill, 
t  look'd  toward  Birnam,  and  anon,  methought, 
The  wood  began  to  move. 


[A  cry  witnm,  ofwvnen 


110  SHAKSPE/.RIA.N    READER. 

Macb.  Liar,  and  slave  !  [Striking  him 

Mzss.  T  3t  me  endure  your  wrath,  if  't  be  not  so  ; 

Within  this  three  mile  may  you  see  it  coming  ; 

I  say,  a  moving  grove. 
Macb.  If  thou  speak'st  false, 

Upon  the  next  tree  shalt  thou  hang  alive, 

Till  famine  cling  thee  :  if  thy  speech  be  sooth, 

I  care  not  if  thou  dost  for  me  as  much. — 

I  pull  in  resolution ;  and  begin 

To  doubt  the  equivocation  of  the  fiend, 

That  lies  like  truth  :  Fear  not,  till  Birnam  wood 

Do  come  to  Dunsinane ; — and  now  a  wood 

Comes  toward  Dunsinane. — Arm,  arm,  and  out ! — 

If  this,  which  he  avouches,  does  appear, 

There  is  nor  flying  hence,  nor  tarrying  here. 

I  'gin  to  be  a-weary  of  the  sun, 

And  wish  the  estate  o'  the  world  were  now  undone. — 

Ring  the  alarum  bell : — Blow  wind  !  come,  wrack  ! 

At  least  we'll  die  with  harness  on  our  back.  [Exeunt* 

Macbeth  leads   his  followers  to  the  Battle,  which  terminates   in  the  defeat  of  thf 
Urarper  who  i»  «!MO  by  Macduff,  and  Malcolm  is  declared  King  of  Scotland 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


Bhakspeare  took  the  plot  of  this  delightful  comedy  from  a  novel  called,  "  Ro&a1  ynde, 
•r  Enphues'  Golden  Legacy,"  written  by  Lodge,  who  borrowed  his  materials  from  a* 
old  English  poem,  of  the  age  of  Chaucer. 

Our  F*«t  has  improved  upon  his  model,  and  has  constructed  one  of  the  most  exqui- 
litely  finished  Pastoral  Poems  extant  in  our  language. 

The  Plot  and  leading  incidents  of  the  Comedy,  will  be  clearly  illustrated  in  th« 
•elected  scews  we  have  given. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 

DTJKE,  living  in  exile. 

FREDERICK,  brother  to  the  Duke,  and  usurper  of  his  dominions. 

AMIENS,  JAQUES,  Lords  attending  on  the  Duke  in  his  banishment. 

LE  BEAU,  a  courtier  attending  upon  Frederick. 

CHARLES,  his  wrestler. 

OLIVER,  JAQUES,  ORLANDO,  sons  of  Sir  Rowland  de  Bois. 

ADAM,  DENNIS,  servants  to  Oliver. 

TOUCHSTONE,  a  clown. 

Sir  OLIVER  MARTEXT,  a  vicar. 

CORIN,  SILVIUS,  shepherds. 

WILLIAM,  a  country  fellow ,  in  love  with  Audrey. 

A  Person  representing  Hymen. 

ROSALIND,  daughter  to  the  banished  Duke. 
CELIA,  daughter  to  "Frederick. 
PHEBE,  a  shepherdess. 
AUDREY,  a  country  girl. 

Lords  belonging  to  the  two  Dukes  ;  Pages,  Foresters,  and  other 
Attendants. 

The  SCENE  lies,  first,  near  OLIVER'S  House  ;    afterwards  partly  in  the 
Usurper's  Court  and  partly  in  the  Forest  O/ARDEN. 


112  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I.— An  Orchard,  near  Oliver's  House. 
Enter  ORLANDO,  and  ADAM. 

Orlando.  As  I  remember,  Adam,  it  was  upon  this  fashion  lequeathed 
me:  By  will,  but  a  poor  thousand  crowns:  and,  as  thou  say'st, 
charged  my  brother,  on  his  blessing,  to  breed  me  well :  and  there  be- 
gins my  sa'dness.  My  brother  Jaques  he  keeps  at  school,  and  report 
speaks  goldenly  of  his  profit :  for  my  part,  he  keeps  me  rustically  at 
home,  or,  to  speak  more  properly,  stays  me  here  at  home  unkept : 
For  call  you  that  keeping  for  a  gentleman  of  my  birth,  that  differs 
not  from  the  stalling  of  an  ox  ?  His  horses  are  bred  better ;  for, 
besides  that  they  are  fair  with  their  feeding,  they  are  taught  their 
manage,  and  to  that  end  riders  dearly  hired  :  but  I,  his  brother,  gain 
nothing  under  him  but  growth ;  for  the  which  his  animals  are  as 
much  bound  to  him  as  I.  Besides  this  nothing  that  he  so  plentifully 
gives  me,  the  something  that  nature  gave  me,  his  countenance  seems 
to  take  from  me  ;  he  lets  me  feed  with  his  hinds,  bars  me  the  place 
of  a  brother,  and,  as  much  as  in  him  lies,  mines  my  gentility  with  my 
education.  This  is  it,  Adam,  that  grieves  me ;  and  the  spirit  of  my 
father,  which  I  think  is  within  me,  begins  to  mutiny  against  this  ser- 
vitude :  I  will  no  longer  endure  it,  though  yet  I  know  no  wise 
remedy  how  to  avoid  it. 

Enter  OLIVER. 

Adam.  Yonder  comes  my  master,  your  brother. 

OrL  Go  apart,  Adam,  and  thou  shalt  hear  how  he  will  shake  me  up. 

OIL  Now,  sir  !  what  make  you  here  ? 

OrL  Nothing ;  I  am  not  taught  to  make  any  thing. 

OIL  What  mar  you  then,  sir  ? 

OrL  Marry,  sir,  I  am  helping  you  to  mar  that  which  Heaven  made, 
a  poor  unworthy  brother  of  yours,  with  idleness. 

OIL  Marry,  sir,  be  better  employ'd,  and  be  naught  awhile. 

OrL  Shall  I  keep  your  hogs,  and  eat  husks  with  them  ?  What 
prodigal  portion  have  I  spent,  that  I  should  come  to  such  penury  ? 

OIL  Know  you  where  you  are,  sir  ? 

OrL  O,  sir,  very  well :  here  in  your  orchard. 

OIL  Know  you  before  whom,  sir  ? 

OrL  Ay,  better  than  he  I  am  before  knows  me.  I  know,  you  are 
my  eldest  brother ;  and,  in  the  gentle  condition  of  blood,  you  should 
know  me :  The  courtesy  of  nations  allows  you  my  better,  in  that 
you  are  the  first-born ;  but  the  same  tradition  takes  not  away  my 
blood ,  were  there  twenty  brothers  betwixt  us  :  I  have  as  much  of  my 
father  in  me,  as  you ;  albeit,  I  confess,  your  coming  before  me  is 
nearer  to  his  reverence. 

OIL  What,  boy! 

Orl   Come,  come,  elder  brother,  you  are  too  voung  in  this. 


AS   YOU    LIKE    IT.  113 

OH.  Wilt  thou  lay  hands  on  me,  villain  ? 

Orl.  I  am  no  villain ;  I  am  the  youngest  son  of  sir  Rowland  de 
Bois :  he  was  my  father ;  and  he  is  thrice  a  villain,  that  says,  such  a 
father  begot  villains :  Wert  thou  not  my  brother,  I  would  not  take 
this  hand  from  thy  throat,  till  this  other  had  pulled  out  thy  tongue 
for  saying  so :  thou  hast  railed  on  thyself. 

Adam.  Sweet  masters,  be  patient ;  for  your  father's  remembrance, 
be  at  accord. 

OIL  Let  me  go,  I  say. 

Orl.  I  will  not,  till  I  please :  you  shall  hear  me.  My  father 
charged  you  in  his  will  to  give  me  good  education :  you  have  trained 
me  like  a  peasant,  obscuring  and  hiding  from  me  all  gentleman-like 
qualities :  the  spirit  of  my  father  grows  strong  in  me,  and  I  will  no 
longer  endure  it :  therefore  allow  me  such  exercises  as  may  become 
a  gentleman,  or  give  me  the  poor  allottery  my  father  left  me  by  testa- 
ment ;  with  that  I  will  go  buy  my  fortunes. 

OH.  And  what  wilt  thou  do  ?  beg,  when  that  is  spent  ?  Well,  sir, 
get  you  in :  I  will  not  long  be  troubled  with  you :  you  shall  have 
eome  part  of  your  will :  I  pray  you,  leave  me. 

Orl.  I  will  no  further  offend  you  than  becomes  me  for  my  good. 

OH.  Get  you  with  him,  you  old  dog. 

Adam.  Is  old  dog  my  reward  ?  Most  true,  I  have  lost  my  teeth  in 
your  service. — Heaven  be  with  my  old  master !  he  would  not  have 
Bpoke  such  a  word.  [Exeunt  ORLANDO  and  ADAM. 

OH.  Is  it  even  so  ?  begin  you  to  grow  upon  me  ?  I  will  physic 
your  rankness,  and  yet  give  no  thousand  crowns  neither. 

Oliver,  desirous  of  ridding  himself  of  Orlando,  seeks  the  aid  of"  Charles,  the  wrestler," 
who  is  engaged  to  exhibit  in  a  wrestling  match,  that  is  to  take  place  before  the  usurping 
Duke  and  his  court.  Charles,  instigated  by  Oliver,  agrees  to  challenge  Orlando  to  try 
'  a  fall  with  him,"  when  by  superior  skill  he  hopes  to  overcome  and  kill  him.  In  this  he  is 
frustrated  by  the  agility  and  strength  of  Orlando,  who  obtains  the  victory. 

Rosalind  the  daughter  of  the  exiled  Duke,  is  at  her  Uncle's  court,  and  accompanied 
by  Celia  her  cousin,  they  witness  the  wrestling  match.  Rosalind  is  struck  by  the  grace 
Bnd  courage  exhibited  by  Orl»ido— and  learning  that  he  is  the  son  of  one  of  her  Fathei's 
oldest  friends,  her  interest  in  the  young  man  is  increased  ;  she  rewards  Orlando,  with  a 
fold  chain,  and  a  mutual  feeling  of  regard  is  excited  in  both  their  hearts. 

Celia  watches  the  growing  love  of  Rosalind,  and  sportively  accuses  her  with  falling  in 
love  "  on  such  a  sudden:"  their  conversation  is  interrupted  by  Duke  Frederick,  who  has 
become  jealous  of  Rosalind,  and  banishes  her  from  his  court. 

Enter  CELIA,  and  ROSALIND. 

Cel.  Why,  cousin ;  why,  Rosalind  ; — Cupid  have  mercy ; — Not  a 
word? 

Ros.  Not  one  to  throw  at  a  dog. 

Cel.  No,  thy  words  are  too  precious  to  be  cast  away  upon  curs, 
fhrovv  some  <)f  them  at  me ;  come,  lame  me  with  reasons. 

Ros.  Then  there  were  two  cousins  laid  up  ;  when  the  one  should 
be  lamed  with  reasons,  and  the  other  mad  without  any. 

Cel.  But  is  all  this  for  your  father  ? 


114  SHAKSPEARlAlS    DEADER.   - 

Ros.  No,  some  of  it  for  my  child's  father :  O.  how  full  of  briers  ivi 
this  working-day  world ! 

CeL  They  are  but  burs,  cousin,  thrown  upon  thee  in  holiday 
foolery ;  if  we  walk  not  in  the  trodden  paths,  our  very  coats  will 
catch  them. 

Ros.  I  could  shake  them  off  my  coat;  these  burs  are  in  my  heart. 

CeL  Hern  them  away. 

Ros.  I  would  try  ;  if  I  could  cry  hem,  and  have  him. 

CeL  Come,  come,  wrestle  with  thy  affections. 

Ros.  O,  they  take  the  part  of  a  better  wrestler  than  myself. 

CeL  Is  it  possible,  on  such  a  sudden,  you  should  fall  into  so 
strong  a  liking  with  old  sir  Rowland's  youngest  son  ? 

Ros.  The  duke  my  father  lov'd  his  father  dearly. 

CeL  Doth  it  therefore  ensue,  that  you  should  love  his  son  dearly  ? 
By  this  kind  of  chase,  I  should  hate  him,  for  my  father  hated  his  fathei 
dearly ;  yet  I  hate  not  Orlando. 

Ros.  No  'faith,  hate  him  not,  for  my  sake. 

CeL  Why  should  I  not  ?  doth  he  not  deserve  well  ? 

Ros.  Let  me  love  him  for  that ;  and  do  you  love  him,  because  I 
do :  Look,  here  comes  the  duke. 

CeL  With  his  eyes  full  of  anger. 

Enter  DUKE  FREDERICK,  with  Lords. 

Duke  F.     Mistress,  dispatch  you  with  your  safest  haste, 
And  get  you  from  our  court. 

Ros.  Me,  uncle  ? 

Duke  F.  You,  cousin 

Within  these  ten  days  if  thou  be'st  found 
So  near  our  public  court  as  twenty  miles, 
Thou  diest  for  it. 

Ros.  I  do  beseech  your  grace, 

Let  me  the  knowledge  of  my  fault  bear  with  me : 
If  with  myself  I  hold  intelligence, 
Or  have  acquaintance  with  mine  own  desires  ; 
If  that  I  do  not  dream,  or  be  not  frantic, 
(As  I  do  trust  I'  am  not,)  then,  dear  uncle, 
Never  so  much  as  in  a  thought  unborn, 
Did  I  offend  your  highness. 

Duke  F.  Thus  do  all  traitors  • 

If  their  purgation  did  consist  in  words, 
They  are  as  innocent  as  grace  itself : 
Let  it  suffice  thee,  that  I  trust  thee  not. 

Ros.  Yet  your  mistrust  cannot  make  me  a  traitor : 
Tell  me,  whereon  the  likelihood  depends. 

Duke  F.  Thou  art  thy  father's  daughter,  there's  enough. 

Ros.  So  was  I,  when  your  highness  took  his  dukedom ; 
So  was  I,  when  your  highness  banish'd  him : 
Treason  is  not  inherited,  my  lord : 
Or,  if  we  did  derive  it  from  our  friends, 


AS   YOU    LIKE    IT.  115 

What's  that  to  me  ?  my  father  was  no  traitor : 
Then,  good  my  liege,  mistake  me  not  so  much, 
To  think  my  poverty  is  treacherous. 

Cel.  Dear  sovereign,  hear  me  speak. 

Duke  F.  Ay,  Celia ;  we  stay'd  her  for  your  sake. 
Else  had  she  with  her  father  rang'd  along. 

Cel.  I  did  not  then  entreat  to  have  her  stay, 
It  was  your  pleasure,  and  your  own  remorse ; 
I  was  too  young  that  time  to  value  her, 
But  now  I  know  her ;  if  she  be  a  traitor, 
Why,  so  am  I :  we  still  have  slept  together ; 
Rose  at  an  instant,  learn'd,  play'd,  eat  together ; 
And  wheresoe'er  we  went,  like  Juno's  swans, 
Still  we  went  coupled,  and  inseparable. 

Duke  F.  She  is  too  subtle  for  thee ;  and  her  smoothness, 
Her  very  silence,  and  her  patience, 
Speak  to  the  people,  and  they  pity  her. 
Thou  art  a  fool :  she  robs  thee  of  thy  name ; 
And  thou  wilt  show  more  bright,  and  seem  more  virtuous, 
When  she  is  gone :  then  open  not  thy  lips ; 
Firm  and  irrevocable  is  my  doom 
Which  I  have  pass'd  upon  her ;  she  is  banish'd. 

Cel.  Pronounce  that  sentence  then  on  me,  my  liege ; 
I  cannot  live  out  of  her  company. 

Duke  F.  You  are  a  fool : — You,  niece,  provide  yourself; 
If  you  out-stay  the  time,  upon  mine  honor, 
And  in  the  greatness  of  my  word,  you  die. 

[Exeunt  DUKE  FREDERICK,  and  JLorda 

Cel.  O  my  poor  Rosalind  :  whither  wilt  thou  go  ? 
Wilt  thou  change  fathers  ?    I  will  give  thee  mine. 
I  charge  thee,  be  not  thou  more  griev'd  than  I  am. 

Ros.  I  have  more  cause. 

Cel.  Thou  hast  not,  cousin, 

Pr'ythee,  be  cheerful :  know'st  thou  not,  the  duke 
Hath  banish'd  me  his  daughter  ? 

Ros.  That  he  hath  not. 

Gel  No  ?  hath  not  ?  Rosalind  lacks  then  the  love 
Which  teacheth  thee  that  thou  and  I  am  one  : 
Shall  we  be  sunder'd  ?  shall  we  part,  sweet  girl  ? 
No ;  let  my  father  seek  another  heir. 
Therefore  devise  with  me,  n«w  we  may  fly, 
Whither  to  go,  and  what  to  bear  with  us  : 
And  do  not  seek  to  take  your  charge  upon  you, 
To  bear  your  griefs  yourself,  and  leave  me  out ; 
For,  by  this  heaven,  now  at  our  sorrows  pale, 
Say  what  thou  canst,  I'll  go  along  with  thee. 

Ros.  Why,  whither  shall  we  go  ? 

Cel.  To  see.;  my  uncle. 

Ros.  Alas,  what  danger  will  it  be  to  us, 


110  SHAKSPEARIAN   READER. 

Maids  as  we  ar?,  lo  travel  forth  so  far  ? 
Beauty  provukcth  thieves  sooner  than  gold. 

CeL  I'll  put  myself  in  poor  and  mean  attire, 
And  with  a  kind  of  umber  smirch  my  face  ; 
The  like  do  you  ;  so  shall  we  pass  along, 
And  never  stir  assailants. 

Ros.  Were  it  not  better, 

Because  that  I  am  more  than  common  tall, 
That  I  did  suit  me  all  points  like  a  man  ? 
A  boar-spear  in  my  hand  ;  and  (in  my  heart 
Lie  there  what  hidden  woman's  fear  there  will,) 
We'll  have  a  swashing  and  a  martial  outside  ; 
As  many  other  mannish  cowards  have, 
That  do  outface  it  with  their  semblances. 

CeL  What  shall  I  call  thee  when  thou  art  a  man  ? 

Ros.  I'll  have  no  worse  a  name  than  Jove's  own  page, 
And  therefore,  look  you,  call  me,  Ganymede. 
But  what  will  you  be  call'd  ? 

CeL  Something  that  hath  a  reference  to  my  state  : 
No  longer  Celia,  but  Aliena. 

Ros.  But,  cousin,  what  if  we  assay'd  to  steal 
The  clownish  fool  out  of  your  father's  court  ? 
Would  he  not  be  a  comfort  to  our  travel  ? 

CeL  He'll  go  along  o'er  the  wide  world  with  me  ; 
Leave  me  alone  to  woo  him  :  Let's  away, 
And  get  our  jewels  and  our  wealth  together  ; 
Devise  the  fittest  time,  and  safest  way 
To  hide  us  from  pursuit  that  will  be  made 
After  my  flight  :  Now  go  we  in  content, 
To  liberty,  and  not  to  banishment.  [Exeunt. 

The  action   now  begins  in  the  Forest  of  ArJen,  where  the  exile*     Dike  and  hit 
followers  have  found  refuge. 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  I.—  The  Forest  o/Arden. 

Enter  DUKE  Senior,  AMIENS,  and  other  Lords,  in  ih»  dress  of 

Foresters. 

Duke  S.  Now,  my  co-mates,  and  brothers  in  exile, 
Hath  not  old  custom  made  this  life  more  sweet 
Than  that  of  painted  pomp  ?    Are  not  these  woods 
More  free  from  peril  than  the  envious  court  ? 
Here  feel  we  but  the  penalty  of  Adam, 
The  seasons'  difference  ;  as"  the  icy  fang, 
And  churli  sh  chiding  of  the  winter's  wind  ; 
Which,  w*:en  it  bites  and  blows  upon  my  body, 
Even  tiU  t  shrink  with  cold,  I  smile,  and  say,  — 


AS   YOU    LIKE    IT.  117 

This  is  no  flattery  :  these  are  counsellors 

That  feelingly  persuade  me  what  I  am. 

Sweet  are  the  uses  of  adversity ; 

Which,  like  the  toad,  ugly  and  venomous, 

Wears  yet  a  precious  jewel  in  his  head  ; 

And  this  our  life,  exempt  from  public  haunt, 

Finds  tongues  in  trees,  books  in  the  running  brooks, 

Sermons  in  stones,  and  good  in  every  thing. 

Ami.  I  would  not  change  it :  Happy  is  your  grace 
That  can  translate  the  stubbornness  of  fortune 
Into  so  quiet  and  so  sweet  a  style. 

Duke  S.  Come,  shall  we  go  and  kill  us  venison  ? 
And  .yet  it  irks  me,  the  poor  dappled  fools, — 
Being  native  burghers  of  this  desert  city, — 
Should,  in  their  own  confines,  with  forked  heads 
Have  their  round  haunches  gor'd. 

1st  Lord.  Indeed,  my  lord, 

The  melancholy  Jacques  grieves  at  that ; 
And,  in  that  kind,  swears  you  do  more  usurp 
Than  doth  your  brother  that  hath  banish'd  you. 
To-day,  my  lord  of  Amiens,  and  myself, 
Did  steal  behind  him,  as  he  lay  along, 
Under  an  oak  whose  antique  root  peeps  out 
Upon  the  brook  that  brawls  along  this  wood : 
To  the  which  place  a  poor  sequester'd  stag, 
That  from  the  hunters'  aim  had  ta'en  a  hurt, 
Did  come  to  languish  ;  and,  indeed,  my  lord, 
The  wretched  animal  heav'd  forth  such  groans, 
That  their  discharge  did  stretch  his  leathern  coat 
Almost  to  bursting  ;  and  the  big  round  tears 
Cours'd  one  another  down  his  innocent  nose 
In  piteous  chase  :  and  thus  the  hairy  fool, 
Much  marked  of  the  melancholy  Jacques, 
Stood  on  the  extremest  verge  of  the  swift  brook, 
Augmenting  it  with  tears. 

Duke  S.  But  what  said  Jacques  ] 

Did  he  not  moralize  this  spectacle  ? 

"1st  Lord.  O,  yes,  into  a  thousand  similes. 
First,  for  his  weeping  in  the  needless  stream  ; 
Poor  deer,  quoth  he,  tJiou  mak'st  a  testament 
As  worldlings  do,  giving  thy  sum  of  more 
To  that  which  had  too  much :  Then  being  alone, 
Left  and  abandon'd  of  his  velvet  friends  ; 
'Tts  right,  quoth  he ;  this  misery  doth  part 
The  flux  of  company :  Anon,  a  careless  herd, 
Full  of  the  pasture,  jumps  along  by  him, 
And  never  stays  to  greet  him  ;  Ay,  quoth  Jacques. 
Siveep  on,  you  fat  and  greasy  citizens; 

th*  fashion :   Wherefore  do  you  link 


118  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Upon  that  poor  and  broken  bankrupt  there  ? 
Thus  most  invectively  he  pierceth  through 
The  body  of  the  country,  city,  court, 
Yea,  and  of  this  our  life :  swearing  that  we 
Are  mere  usurpers,  tyrants,  and  what's  worse, 
To  fright  the  animals,  and  to  kill  them  up, 
In  their  assign'd  and  native  dwelling  place. 

Duke  S.  And  did  you  leave  him  in  this  contemplation  f 

2nd  Lord.  We  did,  my  lord,  weeping,  and  commenting 
Upon  the  sobbing  deer. 

Duke  S.  Show  me  the  place ; 

[  love  to  cope  him  in  these  sullen  fits, 
For  then  he's  full  of  matter. 

2nd  Lord.  I'll  bring  you  to  him  straight.  [Exeunt. 

Oliver,  foiled  in  his  scheme  to  destroy  Orlando  at  the  wrestling-mateh,  plots  odief 
means  "to  cut  his  brother  off."  Adam  learns  his  intentions,  and  the  faithful  old  H>M 
reveals  them  to  Orlando. 

SCENE  III.— Before  Oliver's  House. 
Enter  ORLANDO  and  ADAM,  meeting. 

Orl  Who's  there  ? 

Adam.  What !  my  young  master  ? — O,  my  gentle  master, 
O,  my  sweet  master,  O  you  memory 
Of  old  Sir  Rowland  !  why,  what  make  you  here  ? 
Why  are  you  virtuous  ?     Why  do  people  love  you  ? 
And  wherefore  are  you  gentle,  strong,  and  valiant  ? 
Why  would  you  be  so  fond  to  overcome 
The  bony  priser  of  the  humorous  duke  ? 
Your  praise  is  come  too  swiftly  home  before  you. 
Know  you  not,  master,  to  some  kind  of  men 
Their  graces  serve  them  but  as  enemies  ? 
No  more  do  yours ;  your  virtues,  gentle  master 
Are  sanctified  and  holy  traitors  to  you. 
O,  what  a  world  is  this,  when  what  is  comely 
Envenoms  him  that  bears  it ! 

Orl.  Why,  what's  the  matter  ? 

Adam.  O  unhappy  youth 

Come  not  within  these  doors ;  within  this  roof 
The  enemy  of  all  your  graces  lives : 
Your  brother — (no,  no  brother ;  yet  the  son — 
Yet  not  the  son  ;  I  will  not  call  him  son — 
Of  him  I  was  about  to  call  his  father,) — 
Hath  heard  your  praises ;  and  this  night  he  means 
To  burn  the  lodging  where  you  used  to  lie, 
And  you  within  it :  if  he  fail  of  that, 
He  will  have  other  means  to  cut  you  off; 
[  overheard  him,  and  his  practices. 


AS   YOU    LIKE   IT,  11!) 


[Exeunt. 


120  SHAKSrEARIAN    READER. 

SCENE  IV.— The  Forest  o/Arden. 

Enter  ROSALIND  in  loy's  doilies,  CELIA  drest  like  a  Shepherdess,  and 
TOUCHSTONE. 

Ros.  O  Jupiter !  how  weary  are  my  spirits  ! 

Touch.  I  care  not  for  my  spirits,  if  my  legs  were  not  weary. 

Ros.  I  could  find  in  my  heart  to  disgrace  my  man's  apparel,  and 
to  cry  like  a  woman :  but  I  must  comfort  the  weaker  vessel,  as 
doublet  and  hose  ought  to  show  itself  courageous  to  petticoat :  there- 
fore, courage,  good  Aliena. 

Gel.  I  pray  you,  bear  with  me  ;  I  can  go  no  further. 

Touch.  For  my  part,  I  had  rather  bear  with  you,  than  bear  you  : 
yet  I  should  bear  no  cross,  if  I  did  bear  you ;  for,  I  think,  you  have 
no  money  in  your  purse. 

Ros.  Well,  this  is  the  forest  of  Arden. 

Touch.  Ay,  now  am  I  in  Arden :  the  more  fool  I ;  when  I  waa; 
at  home,  I  was  in  a  better  place  ;  but  travellers  must  be  content. 

Ros.  Ay,  be  so,  good  Touchstone: — Look  you,  who  comes  here; 
a  young  man,  and  an  old,  in  solemn  talk. 

Enter  CORIN,  and  SILVIUS. 

Cor.  That  is  the  way  to  make  her  scorn  you  still. 

Sil.  O  Corin,  that  thou  knew'st  how  1  tfo  love  her ' 

Cor.  I  partly  guess ;  for  I  have  lov'd  ere  now. 

Sil.  No,  Corin,  being  old,  thou  canst  not  guess ; 
Though  in  thy  youth  thou  wast  as  true  a  lo^ei- 
As  ever  sigh'd  upon  a  midnight  pillow : 
But  if  thy  love  were  ever  like  to  mine, 
(As  sure  I  think  did  never  man  love  so,) 
How  many  actions  most  ridiculous 
Hast  thou  been  drawn  to  by  thy  fantasy  ? 

Cor.  Into"  a  thousand  that  I  have  forgotten. 

Sil.  O,  thou  didst  then  ne'er  love  so  heartily 
If  thou  remember'st  not  the  slightest  folly 
That  ever  love  did  make  thee  run  into, 
Thou  hast  not  lov'd : 
O,  if  thou  hast  not  sat  as  I  do  now, 
Wearying  thy  hearer  in  thy  mistress'  praise, 
Thou  hast  not  lov'd : 
Or,  if  thou  hast  not  broke  from  company, 
Abruptly,  as  my  passion  now  makes  me, 
Thou  hast  not  lov'd :  O  Phebe,  Phebe,  Phebe  !  [Exit  SILVIUS. 

Ros.  Alas,  poor  shepherd  !  searching  of  thy  wound, 
I  have  oy  hard  adventure  found  mine  own. 

Touch.  And  I  mine :  We,  that  are  "true  lovers,  -run  into  strange 
capers  ;  but  as  all  is  mortal  in  nature,  so  is  all  nature  in  love  mortaj 
in  folly. 

Ros.  Thou  speak'st  wiser,  than  thou  art  'ware  of. 


AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  121 

Touch.  Nay,  I  shall  ne'er  be  'ware  of  mine  own  wit,  till  I  creak 
diy  shins  against  it. 

Ros.   Jove  !  Jove  !  this  shepherd's  passion 
Is  much  upon  thy  fashion. 

Touch.  And  mine  ;  but  it  grows  something  stale  with  me. 

Cel.  I  pray  you,  one  of  you  question  yond  man, 
f  he  for  gold  will  give  us  any  food ; 
faint  almost  to  death. 

Touch.  Holla :  you,  clown  ! 

Ros.  Peace,  fool ;  he's  not  thy  kinsman, 

Cor.  Who  calls  ? 

Touch.  Your  betters,  sir. 

Cor.  Else  are  they  very  wretched. 

Ros.  Peace,  I  say : 

t*  >od  even  to  you,  fnend. 

Cor.  And  to  you,  gentle  sir,  and  to  you  all. 

Ros.  I  pr'ythee,  shepherd,  if  that  love,  or  gold, 
Ca\i  in  this  desert  place  buy  entertainment, 
Bring  us  where  we  may  rest  ourselves,  and  feed : 
Here's  a  young  maid  with  travel  much  oppress'd, 
And  faints  for  succor. 

Cor.  Fair  sir,  I  pity  her. 

And  wish  for  her  sake,  more  than  for  mine  own, 
My  fortunes  were  more  able  to  relieve  her : 
But  I  am  shepherd  to  another  man, 
And  do  not  shear  the  fleeces  that  I  graze  ; 
My  master  is  of  churlish  disposition, 
And  little  recks  to  find  the  way  to  heaven 
By  doing  deeds  of  hospitality : 
Besides,  his  cote,  his  flocks,  and  bounds  of  feed, 
Are  now  on  sale,  and  at  our  sheepcote  now, 
By  reason  of  his  absence,  there  is  nothing 
That  you  will  feed  on  ;  but  what  is,  come  see, 
And  in  my  voice  most  welcome  shall  you  be. 

Ros.  What  is  he  that  shall  buy  his  flock  and  pasture  ? 

Cor.  That  young  swain  that  you  saw  here  but  erewhile, 
That  little  cares  for  buying  any  thing. 

Ros.  I  pray  thee,  if  it  stand  with  honesty, 
Buy  thou  the  cottage,  pasture,  and  the  flock, 
And  thou  shalt  have  to  pay  for  it  of  us. 

Cel.  And  we  will  mend  thy  wages :  I  like  this  place, 
And  willingly  could  waste  my  time  in  it. 

Cor.  Assuredly,  the  thing  is  to  be  sold : 
Go  with  me  ;  if  you  like,  upon  report, 
The  soil,  the-  profit,  and  this  kind  of  life, 
I  will  your  very  faithful  feeder  be, 
And  buy  it  with  youi  3 old  right  suddenly.  [Exeunt. 


Iii2  &.IAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

SCENE  V.— Another  part  of  the  Forest.     A  Talk  set 

Enter  DUKE  Senior,  AMIENS,  Lords,  and  otlicrs. 
Duke  S.  I  think  he  be  transform'd  into  a  beast 
For  I  can  no  where  find  him  like  a  man. 

1st  Lord.  My  lord,  he  is  but  even  now  gone  hence ; 
Here  was  he  merry,  hearing  of  a  song. 

Duke  S.  If  he,  compact  of  jars,  grow  musical, 
We  shall  have  shortly  discord  in  the  spheres  : — 
*jo,  seek  him  ;  tell  him  I  would  speak  with  him. 

Enter  JAQUES. 

1  st  Lord.  He  saves  my  labor  by  his  own  approach. 

Duke  S.  Why,  how  now,  monsieur !  what  a  life  is  thia 
That  your  poor  friends  must  woo  your  company  ? 
What !  you  look  merrily. 

Jag.  A  fool,  a  fool ! 1  met  a  fool  i'  the  forest, 

A  motley  fool ; — a  miserable  world  ! — 

As  I  do  live  by  food,  I  met  a  fool ; 

Who  laid  him  down  and  bask'd  him  in  the  sun, 

And  rail'd  on  lady  Fortune  in  good  terms, 

In  good  set  terms, — and  yet  a  motley  fool. 

ijrood-morrow,fool,  quoth  I :  No,  sir,  quoth  he, 

Call  me  not  fool,  till  heaven  hath  sent  me  fortune : 

And  then  he  drew  a  dial  from  his  poke  : 

And  looking  on  it  with  lack-lustre  eye, 

Says,  very  wisely,  It  is  ten  o'clock : 

Thus  may  we  see,  quoth  he,  how  the  world  wags : 

'  Tis  but  an  hour  ago,  since  it  was  nine ; 

And  after  an  hour  more,  'twill  be  eleven ; 

And  so,  from  hour  to  hour,  we  ripe  and  ripe, 

And  then,  from  hour  to  hour,  we  rot  and  rot, 

And  thereby  hangs  a  tale.     When  I  did  hear 

The  motley  fool  thus  moral  on  the  time, 

My  lungs  began  to  crow  like  chanticleer, 

That  fools  should  be  so  deep  contemplative  ; 

And  I  did  laugh,  sans  intermission, 

An  hour  by  his  dial.— O  noble  fool ! 

A  worthy  fool !     Motley's  the  only  wear. 

Duke  S.  What  fool  is  this  ? 

Jaq.  O  worthy  fool ! — One  that  hath  been  a  courtier ; 
And  say,  if  ladies  be  but  young,  and  fair, 
They  have  the  gift  to  know  it :  and  in  his  brain, — 
Which  is  as  dry  as  the  remainder  biscuit 
After  a  voyage, — he  hath  strange  places  cramm'd 
With  observation,  the  which  he  vents 
In  mangled  forms  : — O,  that  I  were  a  fool ! 
I  am  ambitious  for  a  motley  coat. 

Duke  S.  Thou  shalt  have  one. 


AS    YOU    LIKE -IT.  123 

Jaq.  It  is  my  only  suit ; 

Provided,  that  you  weed  your  better  judgments 
Of  all  opinion  that  grows  rank  in  them, 
That  I  am  wise.     I  must  have  liberty 
Withal,  as  large  a  charter  as  the  wind, 
To  blow  on  whom  I  please  ;  for  so  fools  have  : 
And  they  that  are  most  galled  with  my  folly, 
They  most  must  laugh  :  And  why,  sir,  must  they  so  ? 
The  why  is  plain  as  way  to  parish  church  : 
He,  that  a  fool  doth  very  wisely  hit, 
Doth  very  foolishly,  although  he  smart, 
Not  to  seem  senseless  of  the  bob  :  if  not, 
The  wise  man's  folly  is  anatomiz'd 
Even  by  the  squandering  glances  of  the  fool. 
Invest  me  in  my  motley  ;  give  me  leave 
To  speak  my  mind,  ana  I  will  through  and  through 
Cleanse  the  foul  body  of  the  infected  world, 
If  they  will  patiently  receive  my  medicine. 

Duke  S.  Fye  on  thee  !  I  can  tell  what  thou  would'st  do. 

Jaq.  What,  for  a  counter,  would  I  do,  but  good  ? 

Duke  S.  Most  mischievous  foul  sin,  in  chiding  sin  : 
For  thou  thyself  hast  been  a  libertine. 

Jaq.  Why,  who  cries  out  on  pride, 
That  can  therein  tax  any  private  party  ? 
Doth  it  not  flow  as  hugely  as  the  sea, 
Till  that  the  very  very  means  do  ebb  ? 
What  woman  in  the  city  do  I  name, 
When  that  I  say,  The  city-woman  bears 
The  cost  of  princes  on  unworthy  shoulders  ? 
Who  can  come  in,  and  say,  that  I  mean  her, 
-When  such  a  one  as  she,  such  is  her  neighbor  ? 
Or  what  is  he  of  basest  function, 
That  says,  his  bravery  is  not  on  my  cost, 
(Thinking  that  I  mea'n  him,)  but  therein  suits 
His  folly  to  the  mettle  of  my  speech  ! 
There  then  :  How,  what  then  ?  Let  me  see  wherein 
My  tongue  hath  wrong'd  him  :  if  it  do  him  right, 
Then  he  hath  wrong'd  himself ;  if  he  be  free, 
Why  then,  my  taxing  like  a  wild  goose  flies, 
Unclaim'd  of  any  man. — But  who  comes  here  ? 

Enter  ORLANDO,  with  his  sword  drawn. 

Orl.  Forbear,  and  eat  no  more. 

Jaq.  Why,  I  have  eat  none  yet 

Orl.  Nor  shalt  not,  till  necessity  be  serv'd. 

Duke  S.  Art  thou  thus  bolden'd,  man,  by  thy  distress  ; 
Or  else  a  rude  despiser  of  good  manners, 
That  in  civility  thou  seem'st  so  empty  ? 

Orl.  You  touch'd  my  vein  at  first ;  the  thorny  point 


J24  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Of  bare  distress  hath  ta'en  from  me  the  shew 
Of  smooth  civility  :  yet  am  I  inland  bred, 
And  know  some  nurture  :  But  forbear,  I  say : 
He  dies  that  touches  any  of  this  fruit, 
Till  I  and  my  affairs  are  answered. 

Jaq.  An  you  will  noti>e  answered  with  reason, 
I  must  die. 

Duke  S.  What  would  you  have  ?     Your  gentleness  shall  force 
More  than  your  force  move  us  to  gentleness. 

OrL  I  almost  die  for  food,  and  let  me  have  it. 

Duke  S.  Sit  down  and  feed,  and  welcome  to  oui  table. 

OrL  Speak  you  so  gently  ?  Pardon  me,  I  pray  you. 
I  thought,  that  all  things  had  been  savage  here  ; 
And  therefore  put  I  on  the  countenance 
Of  stern  commandment ;  But  wliate'er  you  are, 
That  in  this  desert  inaccessible, 
Under  the  shade  of  melancholy  boughs, 
Lose  and  neglect  the  creeping  hours  of  time  ; 
If  ever  you  have  look'd  on  better  days ; 
If  ever  been  where  bells  have  knoll'd  to  church  ; 
If  ever  sat  at  any  good  man's  feast ; 
If  ever  from  your  eyelids  wip'd  a  tear, 
And  know  what  'tis  to  pity,  and  be  pitied  ; 
Let  gentleness  my  strong  enforcement  be : 
In  the  which  hope,  I  blush,  and  hide  my  sword. 

Duke  S.  True  is  it  that  we  have  seen  better  days  ; 
And  have  with  holy  bell  been  knoll'd  to  church ; 
And  sat  at  good  men's  feasts :  and  wip'd  our  eyes 
Of  drops  that  sacred  pity  hath  engender'd : 
And  therefore  sit  you  down  in  gentleness, 
And  take  upon  command  what  help  we  have, 
That  to  your  wanting  may  be  ministred. 

OrL  Then,  but  forbear  your  food  a  little  while, 
Whiles,  like  a  doe,  I  go  to  find  my  fawn, 
And  give  it  food.     There  is  an  old  poor  man, 
Who  after  me  hath  many  a  weary  step 
Limp'd  in  pure  love ;  till  he  be  first  suffic'd, — 
Oppress'd  with  two  weak  evils,  age,  and  hunger, — 
I  will  not  touch  a  bit. 

Duke  S.  Go  find  him  out, 

And  we  will  nothing  waste  till  you  return. 

OrL,  1  thank  ye  ;  and  be  bless'd  for  your  good  comfort !         [  Em 

Duke  S.  Thou  seest,  we  are  not  all  alone  unhappy ; 
This  wide  and  universal  theatre 
Presents  more  woeful  pageants  than  the  scene 
Wherein  we  play  in. 

Jaq.  All  the  world's  9  stago. 

And  all  the  men  and  women  merely  players  : 
They  have  their  exits,  and  their  entrances ; 


AS   YOU   LIKE    IT.  1J56 

And  one  man  in  his  time  plays  many  parts, 

His  acts  being  seven  ages.     At  first,  the  infant, 

Mewling  and  puking  in  the  nurse's  arms. 

And  then,  the  whining  school-boy,  with  his  satchel, 

And  shining  morning  face,  creeping  like  snail 

Unwillingly  to  school.    And  then  the  lover, 

Sighing  like  furnace,  with  a  woeful  ballad 

Made  to  his  mistress'  eyebrow.    Then  a  soldier, 

Full  of  strange  oaths,  and  bearded  like  the  pard, 

Jealous  in  honor,  sudden  and  quick  in  quarrel, 

Seeking  the  bubble  reputation 

Even  in  the  cannon's  mouth.    And  then,  the  justice, 

In  fair  round  belly,  with  good  capon  lin'd, 

With  eyes  severe,  and  beard  of  formal  cut, 

Full  of  wise  saws  and  modern  instances, 

And  so  he  plays  his  part.    The  sixth  age  shifts 

Into  the  lean  and  slipper'd  pantaloon, 

With  spectacles  on  nose,  and  pouch  on  side ; 

His  youthful  hose  well  sav'd,  a  world  too  wide 

For  his  shrunk  shank  ;  and  his  big  manly  voice, 

Turning  again  toward  childish  treble,  pipes 

And  whistles  in  his  sound.    Last  scene  of  all, 

That  ends  this  strange  eventful  history, 

Is  second  childishness,  and  mere  oblivion  ; 

Sans  teeth,  sans  eyes,  sans  taste,  sans  every  thing. 

Re-enter  ORLANDO,  with  ADAM. 

Duke  S.  Welcome.    Set  down  your  venerable  burccn, 
And  let  him  feed. 

OrL  I  thank  you  most  for  him. 

Adam.  So  had  you  need ; 
I  scarce  can  speak  to  thank  you  for  myself. 

Duke  S.  Welcome,  fall  to  ;  I  will  not  trouble  you 
As  yet,  to  question  you  about  your  fortunes  : — 
Give  us  some  music  ;  and,  good  cousin,  sing. 

AMIENS  sings. 
SONG. 

I.   Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind, 
Thou  art  not  so  unkind 

As  man's  ingratitude  ; 
Thy  tooth  is  not  so  keen, 
Because  thou  art  not  seen, 

Although  thy  breath  be  rude. 
Heigh,  ho !  sing,  heigh,  ho  !  unto  the  green  holly  : 
Most  friendship  is  feigning,  most  loving  mere  folly. 
Tlien,  heigh,  ho,  the  holly  ! 
TJds  l]fe  is  most  jolly. 


120  SHAKSPEARIAN    LEADER. 

II.  Freeze,  freeze,  ihou  litter  sky> 
Thou  dost  not  bite  so  nigh 

As  benefits  forgot : 
Though  thou  the  waters  warp, 
Thy  sting  is  not  so  sharp 

As  friend  remembered  not. 
Heigh,  hj  !  sing,  heigh,  ho !  &c. 

Du\e  S.  If  that  you  were  the  good  Sir  Rowland's  son,— 
As  you  have  whisper'd  faithfully,  you  were  ; 
And  as  mine  eye  doth  his  effigies  witness 
Most  truly  limn'd,  and  living  in  your  face, — 
Be  truly  welcome  hither :  I  am  the  duke, 
That  lov'd  your  father  :  The  residue  of  your  fortune, 
Go  to  my  cave  and  tell  me. — Good  old  man  ; 
Thou  art  right  welcome  as  thy  master  is  ; 
Support  him  by  the  arm. — Give  me  your  hand, 
And  let  me  all  your  fortunes  understand.  [Exeunt. 

Duke  Frederick  on  discovering  the  flight  of  his  daughter  and  Rosalind,  suspects  that 
Orlando  has  aided  them.  He  sends  for  Oliver,  and  commands  him  to  seek  the  fugitive*. 
Orlando  remains  in  the  forest  under  the  protection  of  the  banished  Duke. 

ACT  III. 

The  Forest. 
Enter  ORLANDO,  with  a  paper. 

Url.  Hang  there,  my  verse,  in  witness  of  my  love : 

And  thou,  thrice  crowned  queen  of  night,  survey 
With  thy  chaste  eye,  from  thy  pale  sphere  above, 

Thy  huntress'  name,  that  my  full  life  doth  sway. 
O  Rosalind  !  these  trees  shall  be  my  books, 

And  in  their  barks  my  thoughts  I'll  character ; 
That  every  eye,  which  in  this  forest  looks, 

Shall  see  thy  virtue  witness'd  every  where. 
Run,  run,  Orlando  ;  carve,  on  every  tree, 
The  fair,  the  chaste,  and  unexpressive  she.  [Exit. 

Enter  CORIN,  and  TOUCHSTONE. 

Cor.  And  how  like  you  this  shepherd's  life,  master  Touchstone  ? 

Touch.  Truly,  shepherd,  in  respect  of  itself,  it  is  a  good  life ;  but 
in  respect  that  it  is  a  shepher  i's  life,  it  is  naught.  In  respect  that  it 
is  solitary,  I  like  it  very  well ;  but  in  respect  that  it  is  private,  it  is  a 
very  vile  life.  Now  in  respect  it  is  in  the  fields,  it  pleaseth  me  well ; 
but  in  respect  it  is  not  in  the  court,  it  is  tedious.  As  it  is  a  spare 
life,  look  you,  it  fits  my  humor  well ;  but  as  there  is  no  more  plenty 
in  it,  it  goes  much  against  my  stomach.  Hast  any  philosophy  in 
Aee,  shepherd  ? 

Cor.  No  more,  but  that  I  know,  the  more  one  sickens,  the  worse 


AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  127 

at  ease  he  is  ;  and  that  he  that  wants  money,  means,  and  content,  is 
without  three  good  friends  :^-That  the  property  of  rain  is  to  wet,  and 
fire  to  burn  :  That  good  pasture  makes  fat  sheep  ;  and  that  a  great 
cause  of  the  night,  is  lack  of  the  sun  :  That  he,  that  hath  learned  no 
wit  by  nature  nor  art,  may  complain  of  good  breeding,  or  comes  of  a 
very  dull  kindred. 

Toudi.  Such  a  one  is  a  natural  philosopher.  Wast  ever  in  court 
si  f  >>herd  ? 

Cor.  No,  sir,  I  am  a  true  laborer ;  I  earn  that  I  eat,  get  that  ; 
wear;  owe  no  man  hate,  envy  no  man's  happiness;  glad  cf  ether 
•  men's  good,  content  with  my  harm  :  and  the  greatest  of  my  pride  is, 
to  see  my  ewes  graze,  and  my  lambs  feed.  Here  comes  young 
master  Ganymede,  my  new  mistress's  brother. 

Enter  ROSALIND,  reading  a  paper. 
Ros.     From  the  east  to  western  Ind, 
No  jewel  is  like  Rosalind. 
Her  worth,  being  mounted  on  the  wind, 
Through  all  the  world  bears*  Rosalind. 
All  tlie  pictures,  fairest  lin'd, 
"Are  but  black  to  Rosalind. 
Let  no  face  be  kept  in  mind, 
But  the  fair  of  Rosalind. 

Touch.  I'll  rhyme  you  so,  eight  years  together ;  dinners,  and  sup- 
pers, and  sleeping  hours  excepted :  it  is  the  right  butter  woman's 
rank  to  market. 

Ros.  Out,  fool ! 

Touch.     For  a  taste  : 

If  a  hart  do  lack  a  hind, 

Let  him  seek  out  Rosalind. 

If  the  cat  will  after  kind, 

So,  be  sure,  will  Rosalind. 

Winter  garments  must  be  lin'd, 

So  must  slender  Rosalind. 

They  that  reap,  must  sheaf  and  bind  ; 

Then  to  cart  with  Rosalind. 

Sweetest  nut  hath  sourest  rind, 

Such  a  nut  is  Rosalind. 

This  is  the  very  false  gallop  of  verses  ;  Why  do  you  infect  yourself 
with  them  ? 

Ros.  Peace,  you  dull  fool :  I  found  them  on  a  tree. 

Touch.  Truly,  the  tree  yields  bad  fruit. 

Ros.  I'll  graff  it  with  you,  and  then  I  shall  graff  it  with  a  medlar : 
then  it  will  be  the  earliest  fruit  in  the  country :  for  you  will  be 
rotten  e'er  you  be  half  ripe,  and  that's  the  right  virtue  of  the  medlar. 

Touch.  You  have  said;  but  whether  wisely  or  no,  let  the  fores1 
.'udge. 


128  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Enter  CELIA,  reading  a  paper 

Ros.  Peace 

Here  comes  my  sister,  reading  ;  stand  aside. 
Cel.     Why  should  this  desert  silent  be  ? 

For  it  is  unpeopled  ?    No ; 
Tongues  VII  hang  on  every  tree, 
That  shall  civil  sayings  show : 
Some,  how  brief  the  life  of  man 
Runs  his  erring  pilgrimage  ; 
That  the  stretching  of  a  span 
Buckles  in  his  sum  of  age. 
Some,  of  violated  votes 

'  Twixt  the  souls  of  friend  and  friend : 
But  upon  the  fairest  boughs, 
Or  at  every  sentence'  end, 
Will  I  Rosalinda  write  : 

Teaching  all  that  read  to  know 
The  quintessence  of  every  sprite 
Heaven  would  in  little  show. 
Then  fore  heaven  nature  charged 
That  one  body  should  befill'd 
With  all  graces  wide  enlarged : 

Nature  presently  distill' 'd 
Helen's  cheek,  but  not  her-  heart ; 

Cleopatra's  majesty ; 
Atalanta's  better  part  ; 

Sad  Lucretia's  modesty. 
Thus  Rosalind  of  many  parts 

By  heavenly  synod  was  devised, 
Of  many  faces,  eyes,  and  hearts 

To  have  the  touches  dearest  prized. 
Heaven  would  that  sJie  these  gifts  should  have, 
And  I  to  live  and  die  her  slave. 

Ros.  O  most  gentle  Jupiter ! — what  tedious  homily  of  love  have 
you  wearied  your  parishioners  withal,  and  nevei  cry'd,  Have  patience, 
good  people ! 

Cel.  How  now  !  back  friends  ; — Shepherd  go  off  a  little  : — Go 
with  him,  sirrah. 

Touch.  Come,  shepherd,  let  us  make  an  honorable  retreat :  though 
not  with  bag  and  baggage,  yet  with  scrip  and  scrippage. 

[Exeunt  CORIN,  and  TOUCHSTONE. 
Cel.  Didst  thou  hear  these  verses  ? 

Ros.  O,  yes,  I  heard  them  all,  and  more  too ;  for  some  of  them 
aad  in  them  more  feet  than  the  verses  would  bear. 

Cel.  That's  no  matter ;  t'le  feet  might  bear  the  verses. 
Ros.  Ay,  but  the  feet  wire  lame,  and  could  not  bear  themselvea 
without  the  verse,  and  therefore  stood  lamely  in  the  verse. 

Cel.  But  didst  thou  hear,  without  wondering  how  thy  na)y<e  should 
oe  hang'd  and  carved  upon  these  trees  ? 


AS    fOU   LIKE    IT.  12J« 

Ros.  I  was  seven  of  the  nine  days  out  of  the  wonder,  before  you 
came ;  for  look  here  what  I  found  on  a  palm-tree :  I  was  never  so 
be-rhymed  since  Pythagoras'  time,  that  I  was  an  Irish  rat,  which  I 
can  hardly  remember. 

Cel.  Trow  you,  who  hath  done  this  ? 

Ros.  Is  it  a  man  ? 

Cel.  And  a  chain,  that  you  once  wore,  about  his  neck :  Change 
you  color  ? 

Ros.  I  pr'ythee,  who  ? 

Cel.  O !  it  is  a  hard  matter  for  friends  to  meet ;  but  mountains 
may  be  removed  with  earthquakes,  and  so  encounter. 

Ros.  Nay,  but  who  is  it  ? 

Cel.  Is  it  possible  ? 

Ros.  Nay,  I  pray  thee  now,  with  most  petitionary  vehemence,  tell 
me  who  it  is  ? 

Cel.  O  wonderful,  wonderful,  and  most  wonderful,  and  yet  again 
wonderful,  and  after  that  out  of  all  whooping  ! 

Ros.  Good  my  complexion  !  dost  thou  think,  though  I  am  capari- 
eon'd  like  a  man,  I  have  a  doublet  and  hose  in  my  disposition  ?  One 
inch  of  delay  more  is  a  South-sea-off  discovery.  I  pr'ythee,  tell  me, 
who  is  it  ?  quickly,  and  speak  apace  :  I  would  thou  couldst  stammer, 
that  thou  might'st  pour  this  concealed  man  out  of  thy  mouth,  as  wine 
comes  out  of  a  narrow-mouth'd  bottle  ;  either  too  much  at  once,  or 
none  at  all.  I  pr'ythee  take  the  cork  out  of  thy  mouth,  that  I  may 
drink  thy  tidings.  What  manner  of  man  ?  Is  his  head  worth  a  hat  ? 

Cel.  It  is  young  Orlando;  that  tripp'd  up  the  wrestler's  heels, 
and  your  heart,  both  in  an  instant. 

Ros.  Nay,  no  mocking ;  speak  sad  brow,  and  true  maid. 

Cel.  I'  faith,  coz,  'tis  he. 

Ros.  Orlando? 

Cel.  Orlando. 

Ros.  Alas  the  day  !  what  shall  I  do  with  my  doublet  and  hose  ? — 
What  did  he  when  thou  saw'st  him  ?  What  said  he  ?  How  look'd 
he  ?  Wherein  went  he  ?  What  makes  he  here  ?  Did  he  ask  for 
me  ?  Where  remains  he  ?  How  parted  he  with  thee  ?  and  when 
shalt  thou  see  him  again  ?  Answer  me  in  one  word. 

Cel.  You  must  borrow  me  Garagantua's  mouth  first :  'tis  a  word 
too  great  for  any  mouth  of  this  age's  size :  To  say,  ay,  and  no,  to 
these  particulars,  is  more  than  to  answer  in  a  catechism. 

Ros.  But  doth  he  know  that  I  am  in  this  forest,  and  in  man's 
apparel  ?  Looks  he  as  freshly  as  he  did  the  day  he  wrestled  ? 

Cel.  It  is  as  easy  to  count  atomies,  as  to  resolve  the  propositions 
of  a  lover : — but  take  a  taste  of  my  finding  him,  and  relish  it  with  a 
good  observance.  I  found  him  under  a  tree,  like  a  dropp'd  acorn. 

Ros.  It  may  well  be  call'd  Jove's  tree,  when  it  drops  forth  such 
fruit. 

Cel.  Give  me  audience,  good  madam. 

Ros.  Proceed. 

Cel.  There  lay  he,  stretch'd  along,  like  a  wounded  knight. 

•7* 


130  SHAKSPEARIAN    LEADER. 

Ros.  Though  it  be  pity  to  see  such  a  sight,  it  well  becomes  the 
ground. 

Cel.  Cry,  holloa !  to  thy  tongue,  I  pr'ythee :  it  curvets  very  un 
reasonably.     He  was  furnish'd  like  a  hunter. 

Ros.  O  ominous  !  he  comes  to  kill  my  heart. 

Cel.  I  would  sing  my  song  without  a  burden :  thou  bring'st  me 
out  of  tune. 

Ros.  Do  you  not  know  I  am  a  woman  ?  when  I  think,  I  must 
speak.  Sweet,  say  on. 

Enter  ORLANDO,  and  JAQUES. 

Cel.  You  bring  me  out : — Soft !  comes  he  not  here  ? 

Ros.  'Tis  he  ;  slink  by,  and  note  him. 

[CELIA  and  ROSALIND  retire 

Jaq.  I  thank  you  for  your  company  ;  but,  good  faith,  I  had  as 
lief  have  been  myself  alone. 

Orl.  And  so  had  I ;  but  yet,  for  fashion  sake,  I  thank  you  too  for 
your  society. 

Jaq.  Heaven  be  with  you ;  let's  meet  as  little  as  we  can. 

Orl.  I  do  desire,  we  may  be  better  strangers. 

Jaq.  I  pray  you,  mar  no  more  trees  with  writing  love-songs  in 
their  barks. 

Orl.  I  pray  you,  mar  no  more  of  my  verses  with  reading  them  ill- 
favoredly. 

Jaq.  Rosalind  is  your  love's  name  ? 

Orl.  Yes,  just. 

Jaq.  I  do  not  like  her  name. 

Orl.  There  was  no  thought  of  pleasing  you,  when  she  was 
christen'd. 

Jaq.  What  stature  is  she  of  ? 

Orl.  Just  as  hi^h  as  my  heart . 

Jaq.  You  are  lull  of  pretty  answers :  Have  you  not  been  ac- 
quainted with  goldsmith's  wives,  and  conn'd  them  out  of  rings  ? 

Orl.  Not  so  ;  but  I  answer  you  right  painted  cloth,  from  whence 
you  hftve  studied  your  questions. 

Jaq.  You  have  a  nimble  wit ;  I  think  it  is  made  of  Atalanta's 
ueclfi.  Will  you  sit  down  with  me  ?  and  we  two  will  rail  against 
our  mistress  the  world,  and  all  our  misery. 

Orl.  I  will  chide  no  breather  in  the  world,  but  myself;  against 
whom  I  know  most  faults. 

Jaq.  The  most  fault  you  have,  is  to  be  in  love. 

Orl.  'Tis  a  fault  I  will  not  changa  for  your  best  virtue.  I  am 
weary  of  you. 

Jaq.  By  my  troth,  I  was  seeking  for  a  fool,  when  T  found  you. 

Orl.  He  is  drown'd  in  the  brook ;  look  but  in,  and  you  shall  sec 
him. 

Jaq.  There  shall  I  see  mine  own  figure. 

Orl.  Which  I  take  to  be  either  a  fool  or  a  cipher. 

Jaq.  I'll  tarry  no  longer  with  you ;  farewell,  good  signior  Jove. 


AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  131 

Orl.  1  am  glad  of  your  departure ;  adieu,  good  monsieur  melan- 
choly. [Exit  JAQUES. — CEL.  and  Ros.  come  forward. 

Ros.  I  will  speak  to  him  like  a  saucy  lacquey,,  and  under  thai 
habit  play  the  knave  with  him. — Do  you  hear,  forester  ? 

Orl.  \^ery  well ;  what  would  you  ? 

Ros.  I  pray  you,  what  is't  a  clock  ? 

Orl.  You  should  ask  me,  what  time  o'day ;  there's  no  clock  in  the 
forest. 

Ros.  Then  there's  no  true  lover  in  the  forest ;  else  sighing  every 
minute,  and  groaning  every  hour,  would  detect  the  lazy  foot  of  time, 
as  well  as  a  clock. 

OrZ.  And  why  not  the  swift  foot  of  time  ?  had  not  that  been  as 
proper  ? 

Ros.  By  no  means,  sir :  Time  travels  in  divers  paces  with  divers 
persons  :  I'll  tell  you  who  time  ambles  withal,  who  time  trots  withal, 
who  time  gallops  withal,  and  who  he  stands  still  withal. 

Orl.  I  pr'ythee,  who  doth  he  trot  withal  ? 

Ros.  Marry,  he  trots  hard  with  a  young  maid,  between  the  con- 
tract of  her  marriage,  and  the  day  it  is  solemnized. 

Orl.  Who  ambles  time  withal  ? 

Ros.  With  a  priest  that  lacks  Latin,  and  a  rich  man  that  hath  nc/t 
the  gout :  for  the  one  sleeps  easily,  because  he  cannot  study ;  and 
the  other  lives  merrily,  because  he  feels  no  pain :  the  one  lacking 
the  burden  of  lean  and  wasteful  learning ;  the  other  knowing  no 
burden  of  heavy  tedious  penury :  These  time  ambles  withal. 

Orl.  Who  doth  he  gallop  withal  ? 

Ros.  With  a  thief  to  the  gallows  :  for  though  he  go  as  softly  as 
foot  can  fall,  he  thinks  himself  too  soon  there. 

Orl.  Who  stays  it  still  withal  ? 

Ros.  With  lawyers  in  the  vacation :  for  they  sleep  between  term 
and  term,  and  then  they  perceive  not  how  time  moves. 

Orl.  Where  dwell  you,  pretty  youth  ? 

Ros.  With  this  shepherdess,  my  sister ;  here  in  the  skirts  of  the 
forest. 

Orl.  Are  you  a  native  of  this  place  ? 

Ros.  As  the  rabbit,  that  you  see  dwell  where  she  is  kindled. 

Orl.  Your  accent  is  something  finer  than  you  could  purchase  in 
so  removed  a  dwelling. 

Ros.  I  have  been  told  so  of  many :  but,  indeed,  an  old  religious 
uncle  of  mine  taught  me  to  speak,  who  was  in  his  youth  an  inland- 
man  ;  one  that  knew  courtship  too  well,  for  there  he  fell  in  love.  I 
have  heard  him  read  many  lectures  against  it ;  and  I  thank  fortune, 
I  am  not  a  woman,  to  be  touch'd  with  so  many  giddy  offences  as 
he  hath  generally  tax'd  their  whole  sex  withal. 

Orl.  Can  you  remember  any  of  the  principal  evils  that  he  laid  to 
the  charge  of  women  ? 

Ros.  There  were  none  principal;  they  were  all  like  one  another, 
as  naJf-penco  are :  every  one  fault  seeming  monstrous,  till  his  fellow 
fault  came  to  match  it.  " 


132  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

OrL  I  pr'ytho3,  recount  some  of  them. 

Ros.  No  ;  I  will  not  cast  away  my  physic,  but  on  those  that  are 
sick.  There  is  a  man  haunts  the  forest,  that  abuses  our  young 
plants  with  carving  Rosalind  on  their  barks ;  hangs  odes  upon  haw- 
thorns, and  elegies  on  brambles  j.all,  forsooth,  deifying  the  name  of 
Rosalind  :  if  I  could  meet  that  fancy-monger,  I  would  give  him  some 
good  counsel,  for  he  seems  to  have  the  quotidian  of  love  upon  him. 

OrL  I  am  he  that  is  BO  love-shaked ;  I  pray  you,  tell  me  your 
remedy. 

Ros.  There  is  none  of  my  uncle's  marks  upon  you :  he  taught 
me  how  to  know  a  man  in  love  ;  in  which  cage  of  rushes,  I  am  sure 
you  are  not  prisoner. 

OrL  What  were  his  marks  ? 

Ros.  A  lean  cheek  ;  which  you  have  not :  a  blue  eye,  and  sunk- 
en ;  which  you  have  not :  an  unquestionable  spirit ;  which  you 
have  not :  a  beard  neglected  ;  which  you  have  not : — Then  your  hose 
should  be  ungarter'd,  your  bonnet  unhanded,  your  sleeve  unbuttoned, 
your  shoe  untied,  and  every  thing  about  you  demonstratir.  g  a  careless 
desolation.  But  you  are  no  such  man  ;  you  are  rather  point-device 
in  your  accoutrements ;  as  loving  yourself,  than  seeming  the  lover 
of  any  other. 

OrL  Fair  youth.  I  would  I  could  make  thee  believe  I  love. 

Ros.  Me  believe  it  ?  you  may  as  soon  make  her  that  you  love  be 
lieve  it ;  which,  I  warrant,  she  is  apter  to  do,  than  to  confess  she 
does  ;  that  is  one  of  the  points  in  the  which  women  still  give  the  lie 
to  their  consciences.  But,  in  good  sooth,  are  you  he  that  hangs  the 
verses  on  the  trees,  wherein  Rosalind  is  so  admired  ? 

OrL  I  swear  to  thee,  youth,  by  the  white  hand  of  Rosalind,  I  am 
he,  that  unfortunate  he. 

Ros.  But  are  you  so  much  in  love  as  your  rhymes  speak  ? 

OrL  Neither  rhyme  nor  reason  can  express  how  much. 

Ros.  Love  is  merely  a  madness  ;  and,  I  tell  you,  deserves  as  well 
a  dark  house  and  a  whip,  as  madmen  do  ;  and  the  reason  why  they 
are  not  so  punished  and  cured,  is,  that  the  lunacy  is  so  ordinary  that 
the  whippers  are  in  lov'3  too :  Yet  I  profess  curing  it  by  counsel. 

OrL  Did  you  ever  cure  any  so  ? 

Ros.  Yes,  one  ;  and  in  this  manner.  lie  was  to  imagine  me  his 
love,  his  mistress  ;  and  I  set  him  every  day  to  woo  me :  At  which 
time  would  I,  being  but  a  moonish  youth,  grieve,  be  effeminate, 
changeable,  longing,  and  liking  ;  proud,  fantastical,  apish,  shallow,  in- 
constant, full  of  tears,  full  of  smiles ;  for  every  passion  something, 
and  for  no  passion  truly  any  thing,  as  boys  and  women  are  for  the 
most  part  cattle  of  this  color  ;  would  now  like  him,  now  loath  him  ; 
then  entertain  him,  then  forswear  him  ;  now  weep  for  him,  then  spit 
at  him  ;  that  I  drave  my  suitor  from  his  mad  humor  of  love,  to  a  liv- 
ing humor  of  madness  ;  which  was,  to  forswear  the  full  stream  of 
tho  world,  and  to  live  in  a  nook  merely  monastic  :  And  thus  I  cured 
him ;  and  this  way  will  I  take  upon  me  to  wash  your  liver  as  clean 
as  a  sound  sheep's  heart,  that  there  shall  not  be  one  spot  of  love  in'* 


AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  l'3ti 

OrL  I  would  not  be  cured,  youth. 

Ros.  I  would  cure  you,  if  you  would  but  call  me  Rosalind,  and 
come  every  day  to  my  cote,  and  woo  me. 

OrL  Now,  by  the  faith  of  my  love,  I  will ;  tell  me  where  it  is. 

Ros.  Go  with  me  to  it,  and  I'll  show  it  you  :  and  by  the  way,  you 
shall  tell  me  where  in  the  forest  you  live :  Will  you  go  ? 

OrL  With  all  my  heart,  good  youth. 

Ros.  Nay,  you  must  call  me  Rosalind  : — Come,  sister,  will  yon 
go  ?  [Exeunt. 

Rosalind,  still  in  her  male  attire,  wins  the  lo\e  of  Phebe,  a  rustic  beauty,  living  in  tin 
forest,  and  by  her  wit  and  sprightliness  gains  the  attention  of  the  Duke  and  his  followers. 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I.— The  same. 
Enter  ROSALIND,  CELIA,  and  JAQUES, 

Jaq.  I  pr'ythee,  pretty  youth,  let  me  be  better  acquainted  ?/ith 
thee. 

Ros.  They  say  you  are  a  melancholy  fellow. 

Jaq.  I  am  so  ;  I  do  love  it  better  than  laughing. 

Ros.  Those,  that  are  in  extremity  of  either,  are  abominable  fe*- 
lows ;  and  betray  themselves  to  every  modern  censure,  worse  than 
drunkards. 

Jaq.  Why,  'tis  good  to  be  sad  and  say  nothing. 

Ros.  Why  then,  'tis  good  to  be  a  post. 

Jaq.  I  have  neither  the  scholar's  melancholy,  \vhich  is  emulation  ; 
nor  the  musician's,  which  is  fantastical ;  nor  the  courtier's,  which  is 
proud  ;  nor  the  soldier's,  which  is  ambitious ;  nor  the  lawyer's,  which 
is  politic  ;  nor  the  lady's,  which  is  nice  ;  nor  the  lover's,  which  is  all 
these :  but  it  is  a  melancholy  of  mine  own,  compounded  of  many 
simples,  extracted  from  many  objects  :  and,  indeed,  the  sundry  con- 
templation of  my  travels,  in  which  my  often  rumination  wraps  me, 
is  a  most  humorous  sadness. 

Ros.  A  traveller  !  By  my  faith,  you  have  great  reason  to  be  sad  : 
I  fear  you  have  sold  your  own  lands,  to  see  other  men's  ;  then,  to 
nave  seen  much,  and  to  have  nothing,  is  to  have  rich  eyes  and  poor 
hands. 

Jaq.  Yes,  I  have  gained  my  experience. 

Enter  ORLANDO. 

Ros.  And  your  experience  makes  you  sad :  I  had  rather  have  a 
fool  to  make  me  merry,  than  experience  to  make  me  sad ;  and  to 
travel  for  it  too. 

OrL  Good  day,  and  happiness,  dear  Rosalind  ! 

Jaq.  Nay  then,  Heaven  be  wi'  you,  an  you  talk  in  blank  verse. 

Ros.  Farewell,  monsieur  traveller :  Look,  you  lisp,  and  wear 
etrange  suits  ;  disable  all  the  benefits  of  your  own  country ;  be  out 


134  SIIAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

of  love  \A  ith  your  nativity  ;  or  I  will  scarce  think  you  have  swam  in  a 
gondola. — [Exit  JAQUES.] — WLy,  how  now,  Orlando  !  where  have 
you  been  all  this  while  ?  You  a  lover  ? — An  you  serve  me  such  an- 
other trick,  never  come  in  my  sight  more. 

Orl.  My  fair  Rosalind,  I  come  within  an  hour  of  my  promise. 

Ros..  Break  an  hour's  promise  in  love  ?  He  that  will  divide  a  mi- 
nute into  n  thousand  parts,  and  break  but  a  part  of  the  thousandth 
part  of  a  minute  in  the  affairs  of  love,  it  may  be  said  of  him,  that 
Cupid  hath  clapp'd  him  o'  the  shoulder,  but  I  warrant  him  heart 
whole. 

Orl.  Pardon  me,  dear  Rosalind. 

Ros.  Nay,  an  you  be  so  tardy,  come  no  more  in  my  sight ;  I  had 
as  lief  be  woo'd  of  a  snail. 

Orl.  Of  a  snail  ? 

Ros.  Ay,  of  a  snail ;  for  though  he  comes  slowly,  he  tarries  his 
house  on  his  head ;  a  better  jointure,  I  think,  than  you  can  make  a 
woman  :  Besides,  he  brings  his  destiny  with  him. 

Orl.  What's  that. 

Ros.  Why,  horns. 

Orl.  Virtue  is  no  horn-maker ;  and  my  Rosalind  is  virtuous. 

Ros.  And  I  am  your  Rosalind. 

Gel.  It  pleases  him  to  call  you  so ;  but  he  hath  a  Rosalind  of  a 
better  Teer  than  you. 

Ros.  Come,  woo  me,  woo  me  ;  for  now  I  am  in  a  holiday  humor, 
and  like  enough  to  consent : — What  would  you  say  to  me  now,  an 
I  were  your  very  very  Rosalind  ? 

Orl.  I  would  kiss  before  I  spoke. 

Ros.  Nay,  you  were  better  speak  first ;  and  when  you  were  grav« 
elled  for  lack  of  matter,  you  might  take  occasion  to  kiss. 

Orl.  How  if  the  kiss  be  denied  ? 

Ros.  Then  she  puts  you  to  entreaty,  and  there  begins  new  matter. 

Orl.  Who  could  be  out,  being  before  his  beloved  mistress  ? 

Ros.  Marry,  that  should  you,  if  I  were  your  mistress. 

Orl.  What,  of  my  suit  ? 

Ros.  Out  of  your  suit.     Am  not  I  your  Rosalind  ? 

Orl.  I  take  some  joy  to  say  you  are,  because  I  would  be  talking 
of  her. 

Ros.  Well,  in  her  person,  I  say — I  will  not  have  you. 

Orl.  Then,  in  mine  own  person,  I  die. 

Ros.  No,  faith,  die  by  attorney.  The  poor  world  is  almost  six 
thousand  years  old,  and  in  all  this  time  there  was  not  any  man  died 
in  his  own  person,  videlicet,  in  a  love-cause.  Troilus  had  his  brains 
dashed  out  with  a  Grecian  club  ;  yet  he  did  what  he  could  to  die  be- 
fore ;  and  he  is  one  of  the  patterns  of  love.  Leander,  he  would  have 
lived  many  a  fair  year,  though  Hero  had  turned  nun,  if  it  had  not 
been  for  a  hot  midsummer  night ;  for,  good  youth,  he  went  but  forth 
to  wash  him  in  the  Hellespont,  and,  being  taken  with  the  cramp,  was 
ir  wned  ;  and  the  foolish  chroniclers  of  that  age  found  it  was — Hero 


AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  135 

st  Sestos.  But  these  are  all  lies  ;  men  have  died  from  time  to  time, 
ind  worms  have  eaten  them,  but  not  for  love. 

Orl.  I  would  not  have  my  right  Rosalind  of  this  mind ;  for,  I  pro- 
,est,  her  frown  might  kill  me. 

"Ros.  By  this  hand,  it  will  not  kill  a  fly :  But  come,  now  I  will  be 
four  Rosalind  in  a  more  coming-on  disposition ;  and  ask  me  what 
fou  will,  I  will  grant  it. 

Orl.  Then  love  me,  Rosalind. 

Ros.  Yes,  faith  will  I,  Fridays,  and  Saturdays,  and  all. 

Orl.  And  wilt  thou  have  me  ? 

Ros.  Ay,  and  twenty  such. 

Orl.  What  say'st  thou  ? 

Ros.  Are  you  not  good  ? 

Orl.  I  hope  so. 

Ros.  Why  then,  can  one  desire  too  much  of  a  good  tL'ng  ? — Come, 
aster,  you  shall  be  the  priest,  and  marry  us. — Give  me  your  hand, 
Orlando  : — What  do  you  say,  sister  ? 

Orl.  Pray  thee,  marry  us. 

Cel.  I  cannot  say  the  words. 

Ros.  You  must  begin, Will  you,  Orlando, — 

Cel.  Go  to  : Will  you,  Orlando,  have  to  wife  this  Rosalind  ? 

Orl.  I  will. 

Ros.  Ay,  but  when  ? 

Orl.  Why  now  ;  as^fast  as  she  can  marry  us. 

Ros.  Then  you  must  say, — I  take  thee,  Rosalind,  for  wife. 

Orl,  I  take  thee,  Rosalind,  for  wife. 

Ros.  I  might  asl?  you  for  your  commission  ;  but, — I  do  take  thee, 
Orlando,  for  my  husband  :  There  a  girl  goes  before  the  priest ;  and, 
certainly,  a  woman's  thought  runs  before  her  actions. 

Orl.  So  do  all  thoughts  ;  they  are  winged. 

Ros.  Now  tell  me,  how  long  you  would  have  her,  after  you  have 
possessed  her. 

Orl.  For  ever  and  a  day. 

Ros.  Say  a  day,  without  the  ever:  No,  no,  Orlando;  men  are 
April  when  they  woo,  December  when  they  wed :  maids  are  May 
when  they  are  maids,  but  the  sky  changes  when  they  are  wives.  I 
will  be  more  jealous  of  thee  than  a  Barbary  pigeon  over  his  hen ; 
more  clamorous  than  a  parrot  against  rain  ;  more  new-fangled  than 
an  ape  ;  more  giddy  in  my  desires  than  a  monkey  :  I  will  weep  for 
nothing,  like  Diana  in  the  fountain,  and  I  will  do  that  when  you  are 
disposed  to  be  merry ;  I  will  laugh  like  a  hyen,  and  that  when  thou 
art  inclined  to  sleep. 

Orl.  But  will  my  Rosaljnd  do  so  ? 

Ros.  By  my  life,  she  will  do  as  I  do. 

Orl.  O,  but  she  is  wise. 

Ros.  Or  else  she  could  not  have  the  wit  to  do  this  :  the  wiser,  the 
waywarder :  MaKe  the  doors  upon  a  woman's  wit,  and  it  will  out  at 
the  casement ;  shut  that,  and  'twill,  out  at  the  key-hole :  stop  that, 
twill  fly  with  the  smoke  out  at  the  chimnev 


136  .         SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Orl.  A  man  that  had  a  wife  with  such  a  wit,  he  might  say, — Witt 
whither  wilt  ? 

Ros.  You  shall  never  take  her  without  her  answer,  unless  you 
take  her  without  her  tongue. 
.  Orl.  For  these  two  hours,  Rosalind,  I  will  leave  thee. 

Ros.  Alas,  dear  love,  I  cannot  lack  thee  two  hours. 

Orl.  I  must  attend  the  duke  at  dinner ;  by  two  o'clock  I  will  be 
with  thee  again. 

Ros.  Ay,  go  your  ways,  go  your  ways ; — I  knew  what  you  would 
prove  ;  my  friends  told  me  as  much,  and  I  thought  no  less  ; — that 
flattering  tongue  of  yours  won  me  :  'tis  but  one  cast  away,  and  so,— 
come,  death. — Two  o'clock  is  your  hour  ? 

Orl.  Ay,  sweet  Rosalind. 

Ros.  By  my  troth,  and  in  good  earnest,  and  by  all  pretty  oaths 
that  are  not  dangerous,  if  you  break  one  jot  of  your  promise,  or  come 
one  minute  behind  your  hour,  I  will  think  you  the  most  pathetical 
break-promise,  and  the  most  hollow  lover,  and  the  most  unworthy  of 
her  you  call  Rosalind,  that  may  be  chosen  out  of  the  gross  band  of 
the  unfaithful :  therefore  beware  my  censure,  and  keep  your  promise. 

Orl.  With  no  less  religion,  than  if  thou  wert  indeed  my  Rosa- 
lind :  So,  adieu. 

Ros.  Well,  time  is  the  old  justice  that  examines  all  such  offender, 
and  let  time  try  :  Adieu  !  [Exit  ORLANDO. 

Cel.  You  have  simply  misus'd  our  sex  in  your  love-prate  ;  we 
must  have  your  doublet  and  hose  plucked  over  your  head. 

Ros.  O  coz,  coz,  coz,  my  pretty  little  coz,  that  thou  didst  know 
how  many  fathom  deep  I  am  in  love  !  But  it  cannot  be  sounded ;  my 
affection  hath  an  unknown  bottom  like  the  bay  of  Portugal. 

Cel.  Or,  rather,  bottomless  ;  that  as  fast  as  you  pour  affection  in, 
it  runs  out. 

Ros.  I'll  tell  thee,  Aliena,  I  cannot  be  out  of  the  sight  of  Orlando 
I'll  go  find  a  shadow,  and  sigh  till  he  come. 

Cel.  And  I'll  sleep.  [Exeunt 

SCENE  III.— The  Forest. 

Enter  ROSALIND,  CELIA,  and  OLIVER. 

Oli.  Good-morrow,  fair  ones  :  Pray  you,  if  you  know 
Where,  in  the  purlieus  of  this  forest,  stands 
A  sheep-cote,  fenc'd  about  with  olive  trees  ? 

Cel.  West  of  this  place,  down  in  the  neighbor  bottom, 
The  rank  of  osiers,  by  the  murmuring  stream, 
Left  on  your  right  hand,  brings  you  to  the  place : 
But  at  this  hour  the  house  doth  keep  itself, 
There's  none  within. 

Oli.  If  that  an  eye  may  profit  by  a  tongue, 
Then  I  should  know  you  by  description  ; 
Such  garments,  and  such  years  :  "  The  loy  isfair> 
Of  fcmale  favor,  and  bestows  himself 


AS   YOU    LIKE    IT.  137 

Liks  a  ripe  sister :  but  the  woman  low, 

And  browner  than  her  brother."     Are  not  you 

The  owner  of  the  house  I  did  inquire  for  ?* 

CeL  It  is  no  boast,  being  ask'd,  to  say,  we  are. 

OIL  Orlando  doth  commend  him  to  you  both  : 
And  to  that  youth  he  calls  his  Rosalind, 
He  sends  this  bloody  napkin :  Are  you  he  ? 

Ros.  I  am  :  what  must  we  understand  by  this  ? 

OIL  Some  of  my  shame  :  if  you  will  know  of  me 
What  man  I  am,  and  how,  and  why,  and  where 
This  handkerchief  was  stain'd. 

CeL  I  pray  you,  tell  it. 

OIL  When  last  the  young  Orlando  parted  from  you 
He  left  a  promise  to  return  again 
Within  an  hour  ;  and,  pacing  through  the  forest, 
Chewing  the  food  of  sweet  and  bitter  fancy, 
Lo,  what  befell !  he  threw  his  eye  aside, 
And,  mark,  what  object  did  present  itself ! 
Under  an  oak,  whose  boughs  were  moss'd  with  age, 
And  high  top  bald  with  dry  antiquity, 
A  wretched  ragged  man,  o'ergrown  with  hair, 
Lay  sleeping  on  his  back  :  about  his  neck 
A  green  and  gilded  snake  had  wreath'd  itself, 
Who  with  her  head,  nimble  in  threats,  approach'd 
The  opening  of  his  mouth ;  but  suddenly 
Seeing  Orlando,  it  unlink'd  itself, 
And  with  indented  glides  did  slip  away 
Into  a  bush  :  under  which  bush's  shade 
A.  lioness 

Lay  couching,  head  on  ground,  with  cat-like  watch, 
When  that  the  sleeping  man  should  stir ;  for  'tis 
The  royal  disposition  of  that  beast, 
To  prey  on  nothing  that  doth  seem  as  dead  : 
This  seen,  Orlando  did  approach  the  man, 
And  found  it  was  his  brother,  his  elder  brother. 

CeL  O,  I  have  heard  him  speak  of  that  same  brother  5 
And  he  did  render  him  the  most  unnatural 
That  liv'd  'mongst  men 

OK.  And  well  he  might  so  do, 

For  well  I  know  he  was  unnatural. 

Ros.  But,  to  Orlando ; — Did  he  leave  him  there, 
Food  to  the  fierce  and  hungry  lioness  ? 

OIL  Twice  did  he  turn  his  back,  and  purpos'd  so, 
But  kindness,  nobler  ever  than  revenge, 
And  nature,  stronger  than  his  just  occasion, 
Made  him  give  battle  to  the  lioness, 
Who  quickly  fell  beft.re  him  ;  in  which  hurtling 
From  miserable  slumber  I  awak'd 

CeL  Are  you  his  brother  ? 


13S  SHAKSPEARIAN    READEIU 

Ros.  Was  it  you  he  rescued  ? 

Cel  Was't  you  that  did  so  oft  contrive  to  kill  him  ? 

OH.  'Twas  1 ;  but  'tis  not  I :  I  do  not  shame 
To  tell  you  what  I  was,  since  my  conversi  m 
So  sweetly  tastes,  being  the  thing  I  am. 
Ros.  But,  for  the  bloody  napkin  ? — 

OH.  By,  and  by. 

When  from  the  first  to  last,  betwixt  us  two, 
Tears  our  recountments  had  most  kindly  bath'cL 

As,  how  I  came  into  that  desert  place  ; 

In  brief,  he  led  me  to  the  gentle  duke, 

Who  gave  me  fresh  array,  and  entertainmem. 

Committing  me  unto  my  brother's  love  ; 

Who  led  me  instantly  unto  his  cave, 

There  stripp'd  himself,  and  here  upon  his  arm 

The  lioness  had  torn  some  flesh  away, 

Which  all  this  while  had  bled  ;  and  now  he  fainted, 

And  cry'd,  in  fainting,  upon  Rosalind. 

Brief,  I  recover'd  him ;  bound  up  his  wound ; 

And,  after  some  small  space,  being  strong  at  heart, 

He  sent  me  hither,  stranger  as  I  am, 

To  tell  this  story,  that  you  might  excuse 

His  broken  promise,  and  to  give  this  napkin, 

Dy'd  in  his  blood,  unto  the  shepherd  youth 

That  ho  in  sport  doth  call  his  Rosalind. 

Cel.  Why,  how  now,  Ganymede  ?  sweet  Ganymede  ? 

[ROSALIND /a  in/» 

OIL  Many  will  swoon  when  they  do  look  on  blood. 

Cel.  There  is  more  in  it : — Cousin — Ganymede  ! 

Oli.  Look,  he  recovers. 

Ros  I  would,  I  were  at  home. 

Cel.  We'll  lead  you  thither  :— 
I  pray  you,  will  you  take  him  by  the  arm  ? 

OIL  Be  of  good  cheer,  youth  : — You  a  man  ? — You  lack  a  man's 
heart. 

Ros.  I  do  so,  I  confess  it.  Ah,  sir,  a  body  would  think  this  was 
well  counterfeited  :  I  pray  you,  tell  your  brother  how  well  I  counter- 
feited.— Heigh  ho  ! — 

Cel.  This  was  not  counterfeit ;  there  is  too  great  testimony  in  your 
complexion,  that  it  was  a  passion  of  earnest. 

Ros.  Counterfeit,  I  assure  you. 

OH.  Well  then,  take  a  good  heart,  and  counterfeit  to  be  a  man. 

Ros.  So  I  do :  but  i'  faith  I  should  have  been  a  woman  by  right. 

Cel.  Come,  you  look  paler  and  paler ;  pray  you,  draw  homewards: 
—Good  sir,  go  with  us. 

OH.  Thrt  will  I,  for  I  must  bear  answer  back 
How  you  excuse  my  brother,  Rosalind. 

Ros.  I  shall  devise  something :  But,  I  pray  you,  commend  my 
counterfeiting  to  him. — Will  you  go  ?  [Exeunt. 


AS   YOU   LIKE   IT.  180 


ACT  V. 

The  Forest  of  Arden. 
ORLANDO,  and  OLIVE..K 

OrL  Is't  possible,  that  on  so  little  acquaintance  you  shou'il  like 
her  ?  that,  but  seeing,  you  should  love  her  ?  and,  loving,  woo  ?  and, 
wooing,  she  should  grant  ?  and  will  you  perse ver  to  enjoy  her  ? 

OIL  Neither  call  the  giddiness  of  it  in  question,  the  poverty  of  her, 
the  small  acquaintance,  my  sudden  wooing,  nor  her  sudden  consent- 
ing ;  but  say  with  me,  I  love  Aliena ;  say,  with  her,  that  she  loves 
me  ;  consent  with  both,  it  shall  be  to  your  good  ;  for  my  father's 
house,  and  all  the  revenue  that  was  old  sir  Rowland's,  will  I  estate 
upon  you,  and  here  live  and  die  a  shepherd. 

Enter  ROSALIND. 

OrL  You  have  my  consent.  Let  your  wedding  he  to-morrow : 
thither  will  I  invite  the  duke,  and  all  his  contented  followers :  Go 
you,  and  prepare  Aliena  :  for  look  you,  here  comes  my  Rosalind. 

Ros.  Save  you,  brother. 

OIL  And  you,  fair  sister. 

Ros.  O,  my  dear  Orlando,  how  it  grieves  me  to  see  thee  wear  thy 
heart  in  a  scarf. 

OrL  It  is  my  arm. 

Ros.  I  thought  thy  heart  had  been  wounded  with  the  claws  of  a 
lion. 

OrL  Wounded  it  is,  but  with  the  eyes  of  a  lady. 

Ros.  Did  your  brother  tell  you  how  I  counterfeited  to  swoon, 
when  he  show'd  me  your  handkerchief  ? 

OrL  Ay,  and  greater  wonders  than  that. 

Ros.  O,  I  know  where  you  are : — Nay,  'tis  true  :  there  was  never 
any  thing  so  sudden,  but  the  fight  of  two  rams,  and  Caesar's  thrasonical 
brag  of — I  came,  saw,  and  overcame.  For  your  brother  and  my  sister 
no  sooner  met,  but  they  looked ;  no  sooner  looked,  but  they  loved  ; 
no  sooner  loved,  but  they  sighed ;  no  sooner  sighed,  but  they  asked 
one  another  the  reason  ;  no  sooner  knew  the  reason,  but  they  sought 
the  remedy  :  and  in  these  degrees  have  they  made  a  pair  of  stairs  to 
marriage ;  they  are  in  the  very  wrath  of  love,  and  they  will  together ; 
clubs  cannot  part  them. 

OrL  They  shall  be  married  to-morrow  ;  and  1  will  bid  the  duke  to 
the  nuptial.  But  O,  how  bitter  a  thing  it  is  to  look  into  happiness 
through  another  man's  eyes !  By  so  much  the  more  shall  I  to-mor- 
row be  at  the  height  of  heart4ieaviness,  by  how  much  I  shall  think 
my  brother  happy,  in  having  what  he  wishes  for. 

Ros.  Why  then,  to-morrow  I  cannot  serve  your  turn  for  Rosalind  ? 

OrL  I  can  live  no  longer  by  thinking. 

^Ros.  I  will  weary  you  no  longer  then  with  idle  talking.     Know 
cf  me  then,  (fct  now  I  speak  to  some  purpose,)  that  I  know  you  are 


140  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

a  gentleman  of  good  conceit :  I  speak  not  this,  that  you  should  bea; 
a  good  opinion  of  my  knowledge,  insomuch,  I  say,  1  know  you  are  J 
neither  do  I  labor  for  a  greater  esteem  than  may  in  some  little  mea- 
sure draw  a  belief  from  you,  to  do  yourself  good,  and  not  to  grace 
me.  .  Believe  then,  if  you  please,  that  I  can  do  strange  things :  I 
have,  since  I  was  three  years  old,  conversed  with  a  magician,  most 
profound  in  this  art.  If  you  do  love  Rosalind  so  near  the  heart  as 
your  gesture  cries  it  out,  when  your  brother  marries  Aliena,  shall 
you  marry  her :— I  know  into  what  straits  of  fortune  she  is  driven ; 
and  it  is  not  impossible  to  me,  if  it  appear  not  inconvenient  to  you, 
to  set  her  before  your  eyes  to-morryw,  human  as  she  is,  and  without 
any  danger. 

Orl.  Speakest  thou  in  sober  meanings  ? 

Ros.  By  my  life,  I  do ;  which  I  tender  dearly,  though  I  say  I  am 
a  magician :  Therefore,  put  you  in  your  best  array,  bid  your  friends 
for  if  you  will  be  married  to-morrow,  you  shall ;  and  to  Rosalind,  if 
you  will. 

Enter  SILVIUS,  and  PHEBE. 

Look,  here  comes  a  lover  of  mine,  and  a  lover  of  hers. 

Phe.  Youth,  you  have  done  me  much  ungentleness, 
To  show  the  letter  that  I  writ  to  you. 

Ros.  I  care  not,  if  1  have :  it  is  my  study, 
To  seem  despiteful  and  ungentle  to  you  : 
You  are  there  follow'd  by  a  faithful  shepherd ; 
Look  upon  him,  love  him ;  he  worships  you. 

Phe.  Good  shepherd,  tell  this  youth  what  'tis  to  love. 

Sil.  It  is  to  be  all  made  of  sighs  and  tears  ; — 
And  so  am  I  for  Phebe. 

Phe.  And  I  for  Ganymede 

Orl.  And  I  for  Rosalind. 

Ros.  And  I  for  no  woman. 

Sil.  It  is  to  be  all  made  of  faith  and  service  ; — 
And  so  am  I  for  Phebe. 

Phe.  And  I  for  Ganymede. 

CH.  And  I  for  Rosalind. 

Ros.  And  I  for  no  woman. 

Sil.  It  is  to  be  all  made  of  fantasy, 
All  made  of  passion,  and  all  made  of  wishes ; 
All  adoration,  duty,  and  observance, 
All  humbleness,  all  patience,  and  impatience, 
All  purity,  all  trial,  all  observance ; 
4md  so  am  I  for  Phebe. 

Plie.  And  so  am  I  for  Ganymede. 

Orl.  And  so  am  I  for  Rosalind. 

Ros.  And  so  am  I  for  no  woman. 

Phe.  If  this  be  so,  why  blame  you  me  to  love  you  ? 

[  To  Rofuum 

Sil.  u  tt.ls  be  so,  why  blame  you  me  to  love  you  ?      [To  PHEHE, 


AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  141 

Orl.  If  tUs  be  so,  why  blame  you  me  to  love  you  ? 

Ros.  Who  do  you  speak  to,  why  blame  you  me  to  love  you  ? 

Orl.  To  her  that  is  not  here,  nor  doth  not  hear. 

Ros.  Pray  you,  no  more  of  this ;  'tis  like  the  howling  of  Irish 
wolves  against  the  moon. — I  will  help  you,  [to  SILVIUS,]  if  I  can  : — 
I  would  love  you,  [to  PHEBE,]  if  I  could. — To-morrow  meet  me  all 
together. — I  will  marry  you,  [to  PHEBE,]  if  ever  I  marry  woman,  and 
I'll  be  married  to-morrow  : — I  will  satisfy  you,  [to  ORLANDO,]  if  ever  I 
satisfied  man,  and  you  shall  be  married  to  morrow : — I  will  content 
you,  [to  SILVIUS,]  if  what  pleases  you  contents  you,  and  you  shall 
be  married  to-morrow. — As  you,.[to  ORLANDO]  love  Rosalind,  meet ; 
— as  you  [to  SILVIUS]  love  Phebe,  meet ;  And  as  I  love  no  woman, 
I'll  meet. — So,  fare  you  well ;  I  have  left  you  commands. 

Sil.  I'll  not  fail,  if  I  live. 

Phe.  Nor  I. 

Orl.  Nor  I.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.— Another  Part  of  the  Forest. 
Enter  DUKE  Senior,  AMIENS,  JAQUES,  ORLANDO,  OLIVER,  and  CELIA. 

Duke  S.  Dost  thou  believe,  Orlando,  that  the  boy 
Can  do  all  this  that  he  hath  promised  ? 

Orl.  I  sometimes  do  believe,  and  sometimes  do  not ; 
As  those  that  fear  they  hope,  and  know  they  fear. 

Enter  ROSALIND,  SILVIUS,  and  PHEBE. 

Ros.  Patience  once  more,  whiles  our  compact  is  urg'd  : 
You  say,  if  I  bring  in  your  Rosalind,  [To  the  DUKE, 

You  will  bestow  her  on  Orlando  here  ? 

Duke  S.  That  would  I,  had  I  kingdoms  to  give  with  her. 

Ros.  And  you  say  you  will  have  her,  when  I  bring  her  ? 

[To  ORLANDO 

Orl.  ThaA  would  I,  were  I  of  all  kingdoms  king. 

Ros.  You  say,  you'll  marry  me,  if  I  be  willing  1          [To  PHFBE, 

Phe.  That  will  I,  should  I  die  the  hour  after. 

Ros.  But,  if  you  do  refuse  to  marry  me, 
You'll  give  yourself  to  this  most  faithful  shepherd  ! 

Phe.  So  is  the  bargain. 

Ros.  You  say,  that  you'll  have  Phebe,  if  she  will  ? 

[To  SiLviua 

Sil.  Though  to  have  her  and  death  were  both  one  thing. 

Ros.  I  have  promis'd  to  make  all  this  matter  even. 
Keep  you  your  word,  O  duke,  to  give  your  daughter  ; — 
You  yours,  Orlando,  to  receive  his  daughter : — 
Keep  your  word,  Phebe,  that  you'll  marry  me  ; 
Or  else,  refusing  me,  to  wed  this  shepherd  : — 
K  jep  your  word,  Silvius,  tnat  you'll  marry  her, 
If  ehe  refuse  me  : — and  from  hence  I  go, 
To  make  these  doubts  all  even.          r Txevn.'  ROSALIND,  and  CELU 


142  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Duke  S.  I  do  remember  in  this  shepherd-boy 
Some  lively  touches  of  my  daughter's  favor. 

Orl.  My  lord,  the  first  time  that  I  ever  saw  him, 
Methought  he  was  a  brother  to  your  daughter : 
But,  my  good  lord,  this  boy  is  forest-born ; 
And  hath  been  tutor'd  in  the  rudiments 
Of  many  desperate  studies  by  his  uncle," 
Whom  he  reports  to  be  a  great  magician, 
Obscured  in  the  circle  of  this  forest. 

Enter  TOUCHSTONE,  and  AUDREY. 

Jaq,  There  is,  sure,  another  flood  toward,  and  these  couples  are 
coming  to  the  ark !  Here  comes  a  pair  of  very  strange  beasts,  which 
In  all  tongues  are  called  fools. 

Touch.  Salutation  and  greeting  to  you  all ! 

Jaq.  Good  my  lord,  bid  him  welcome ;  This  is  the  motley-minded 
gentleman,  that  I  have  so  often  met  in  the  forest :  he  hath  been  a 
courtier  he  swears. 

Touch.  If  any  man  doubt  that,  let  him  put  me  to  my  purgation. 
I  have  trod  a  measure  ;  I  have  flattered  a  lady  ;  I  have  been  politic 
with  my  friend,  smooth  with  mine  enemy ;  I  have  undone  three 
tailors  ;  I  have  had  four  quarrels,  and  like  to  have  fought  one. 

Jaq.  And  how  was  that  ta'en  up  ? 

Touch.  'Faith,  we  met,  and  found  the  quarrel  was  upon  the 
seventh  cause. 

Jaq.  How  seventh  cause  ?     Good  my  lord,  like  this  fellow. 

Duke  S.  I  like  him  very  well. 

Touch.  Sir,  I  desire  you  of  the  like.  I  press  in  here,  sir,  amongst 
the  rest  of  the  country  folks,  to  swear,  and  to  forswear  :  according  as 
marriage  binds,  and  blood  breaks  : — A  poor  virgin,  sir,  an  ill-favored 
thing,  sir,  but  mine  own ;  .a  poor  humor  of  mine,  sir,  to  take  that 
that  no  man  else  will :  Rich  honesty  dwells  like  a  miser,  sir,  in  a 
poor-house ;  as  your  pearl,  in  your  foul  oyster. 

Duke  S.  By  my  faith,  he  is  very  swift  and  sententious. 

Touch.  According  to  the  fool's  bolt,  sir. 

Jaq.  But  for  the  seventh  cause  ;  how  did  you  find  the  quarrel  on 
the  seventh  cause  ? 

Touch,  Upon  a  lie  seven  times  removed  ; — Bear  your  body  more 
seeming,  Audrey  : — as  thus,  sir.  I  did  dislike  the  cut  of  a  certain 
courtier's  beard ;  he  sent  me  word,  if  I  said  his  beard  was  not  cut 
well,  he  was  in  the  mind  it  was  :  This  is  called  the  Retort  courteous. 
If  I  sent  him  word  again,  it  was  not  well  cut,  he  would  send  me 
word,  he  cut  it  to  please  himself:  This  is  called  the  Quip  modest. 
If  again,  it  was  not  well  cut,  he  disabled  my  judgment :  This  is 
call'd  the  Reply  churlish.  If  again,  it  was  not  well  cut,  he  would 
answer,  I  spake  not  true  :  This  is  called  the  Reproof  valiant.  If 
again,  it  was  not  well  cut,  he  would  say  I  lie :  This  is  call'd  the 
Countercheck  quarrelsome :  and  so  to  the  Lie  circumstantial,  and  the 
Lie  direct. 


A3    YOU    LIKE    IT.  143 

Jaq.  And  how  oft  did  you  say,  his  beard  was  not  well  cut  ? 

Touch.  I  durst  go  no  further  than  the  Lie  circumstantial^  nor  he 
durst  not  give  me  the  Lie  direct ;  and  so  we  measured  swords,  and 
parted. 

Jaq.  Can  you  nominate  in  order  now  the  degrees  of  the  lie  ? 

Touch.  O,  sir,  we  quarrel  in  print,  by  the  book :  as  you  have 
books  for  good  manners :  I  will  name  you  the  degrees.  The  first, 
the  Retort  courteous ;  the  second,  the  Quip  modest ;  the  third,  the 
Reply  churlish  ;  the  fourth,  the  Reproof  valiant ;  the  fifth,  the  Coun- 
tercheck quarrelsome ;  the  sixth,  the  Lie  with  circumstance ;  the 
seventh,  the  Lie  direct.  All  these  you  may  avoid,  but  the  lie  direct ; 
and  you  may  avoid  that  too,  with  an  If.  I  knew  when  seven -justices 
could  not  take  up  a  quarrel ;  but  when  the  parties  were  met  them- 
selves, one  of  them  thought  but  of  an  If,  as,  If  you  said  so,  then  1 
said  so ;  And  they  shook  hands,  and  swore  brothers.  Your  If  is 
the  only  peace-maker ;  much  virtue  in  If. 

Jaq.  Is  not  this  a  rare  fellow,  my  lord  ?  he's  as  good  at  any  thing, 
and  yet  a  fool. 

Duke  S.  He  uses  his  folly  like  a  stalking-horse,  and  under  the 
presentation  of  that,  he  shoots  his  wit. 

Enter  ROSALIND  in  woman's  clothes ;  and  CELIA. 

Ros.  To  you  I  give  myself,  for  I  am  yours.  [  To  DUKE  S. 

To  you  I  give  myself,  for  I  am  yours.  [  To  ORLANDO. 

Duke  S.  If  there  be  truth  in  sight,  you  are  my  daughter. 

Orl.  If  there  be  truth  in  sight,  you  are  my  Rosalind. 

Phe.  If  sight  and  shape  be  true. 
Why  then, — my  love  adieu  ! 

Ros.  I'll  have  no  father,  if  you  be  not  he  : —  [  To  DUKE  & 

['11  have  no  husband,  if  you  be  not  he  : —  [To  ORLANDO. 

\Tor  ne'er  wed  woman,  if  you  be  not  she.  [  To  PHEBE. 

Duke  S.  O  my  dear  niece,  welcome  art  thou  to  rie ; 
|  Even  daughter,  welcome  in  no  less  degree. 

Phe.  I  will  not  eat  my  word,  now  thou  art  mine ; 
Thy  faith  my  fancy  to  thee  doth  combine.  [To 

Enter  JAQUES  DE  Bois. 

Jaq.  de  B.  Let  me  have  audience  for  a  word  or  tw)  j 
I  am  the  second  son  of  old  Sir  Rowland, 
That  bring  these  tidings  to  this  fair  assembly : — • 
Duke  Frederick,  hearing  how  that  every  day 
Men  of  great  worth  resorted  to  this  forest, 
Address'd  a  mighty  power ;  which  were  on  foot, 
In  his  own  conduct,  purposely  to  take 
His  brother  here,  and  put  him  to  the  sword : 
And  to  the  skirts  of  this  wild  wood  he  came  ; 
Where,  meeting  with  an  old  religious  man, 
After  some  question  with  him,  was  converted 
Both  from  his  enterprise,  ar  d  from  the  world : 


144  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

His  crown  bequeathing  to  his  banish'd  brother, 
And  all  their  lands  restor'd  to  them  again 
That  were  with  him  exil'd  :  This  to  be  true, 
I  do  engage  my  life. 

Duke  S.  Welcome,  young  man  ; 

Thou  ofter'st  fairly  to  thy  brothers'  wedding ; 
To  one,  his  lands  withheld  :  and  to  the  other, 
A  land  itself  at  large,  a  potent  dukedom. 
First,  in  this  forest,  let  us  do  those  ends 
That  here  were  well  begun,  and  well  begot : 
And  after,  every  of  this  happy  number, 
That  have  endur'd  shrewd  days  and  nights  with  us, 
Shall  share  the  good  of  our  returned  fortune, 
According  to  the  measure  of  their  states. 
Meantime,  forget  this  new-fall'n  dignity, 
And  fall  into  our  rustic  revelry : — 
Play,  music — and  you  brides  and  bridegrooms  all, 
With  measure  heap'd  in  joy,  to  the  measures  fall. 

Jaa.  Sir,  by  your  patience ;  if  I  heard  you  rightly, 
The  duke  hath  put  on  a  religious  life, 
And  thrown  into  neglect  the  pompous  court  ? 

Jaq.  de  B.  He  hath. 

Jaq.  To  him  will  I :  out  of  these  convertites 
There  is  much  matter  to  be  heard  and  learn'd. — 
You  to  your  former  honor  I  bequeath ;  [To  DUKB  8 

Your  patience,  and  your  virtue,  well  deserves  it : — 


to  ORLANDO]  to  a  love,  that  your  true  faith  doth  merit  :— 
to  OLIVER]  to  your  land,  and  love,  and  great  allies  : — 
to  SILVIUS]  to  a  long  and  well  deserved  bed  : — 


You 

You 

You  m 

And  you  [to  TOUCHSTONE]  to  wrangling  ;  for  thy  loving  voyage 

Is  but  for  two  months  victual'd  : — So  to  your  pleasures  ; 

I  am  lor  other  than  for  dancing  measures. 

Duke  S.  Stay,  Jaques,  stay. 

Jaq.  To  see  no  pastime,  I :  what  you  would  have 
I'll  stay  to  know  at  your  abandon'd  cave.  [Exit 

Duke  S.  Proceed,  proceed  :  we  will  begin  these  rites, 
And  we  do  trust  they'll  end,  in  true  delights.  [A 


OTHELLO,  THE  MOOR  OF  VENICE. 


1  The  Plot  is  taken  from  the  Hecatommithi,  or  '  Hundred  Tales'  of  GirfJdo  Cinthto, 
an  Italian  novelist  and  dramatist  of  the  second  class,  in  the  sixteenth  century."  But  al- 
though Shakspeare  was  indebted  for  the  general  plan  of  his  plot  to  the  Italian  novelist, 
vet  many  of  the  characters  are  entirely  of  his  own  creation,  and  all  of  them  owe  to  him 
hat  individuality  which  Shakspeare,  of  all  dramatic  poets,  seems  to  possess  the  power  of 
.ransfusing  into  all  the  personages  he  introduces  into  his  Dramas. 

Bishop  Lowth  says  of  this  Play,  that — "  the  passion  of  jealousy,  its  causes,  progress, 
incidents,  and  effects,  have  been  more  truly,  more  acutely,  more  copiously,  and  more  im- 
pressively delineated,  than  has  been  done  by  all  the  disquisitions  of  all  the  philosophers 
who  have  treated  on  this  dark  argument." 

But  it  may  well  be  added,  that  the  beauties  of  this  immortal  Drama  are  so  conspicuous 
as  to  need  no  aid  of  critical  illustration. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 

DUKE  OF  VENICE. 

BRABANTio,a  Senator. 

Two  other  Senators. 

GRATIANO,  brother  to  Brabantio. 

LODOVICO,  kinsman  to  Brabantio. 

OTHELLO,  the  Moor : 

CASSIO,  his  lieutenant; 

I  AGO,  his  ancient. 

RODERIGO,  a  Venetian  Gentleman. 

MONTANO,  Othello's  predecessor  in  the  government  of  Cyprus. 

Clown,  servant  to  Othello.     Herald. 

DESDEMONA,  daughter  to  Brabantio,  and  wife  to  Othello. 
EMILIA,  wife  to  lago. 

Officers,  Gentlemen,  Messengers,  Musicians,  Sailors,  Attendants,  fyc. 

SCENE,— for  the  First  Act,  in  VENICE  ;  during  the  rest  of  the  play,  at 
a  Sea-Port  in  CYPRUS. 


146  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Othello,  a  noble  Moor,  in  the  service  of  the  States  of  Venice,  has  won  the  affecliont 
of  Desdemona,  the  daughter  of  Brabantio.  The  lady  leaves  her  father's  house,  clandes- 
tinely, and  is  married  to  the  Moor :  lago,  a  seeming  friend  of  Othello,  but  in  reality  his 
"direst  foe," — acquaints  Brabantio  of  Desdemona's  flight,  and  sets  the  enraged  father  in 
pursuit  of  his  daughter  and  her  husband  :  he  then  joins  the  Moor,  to  avoid  susnicion  of 
his  double  dealing. 

ACT    I. 

SCENE  II.— A  Street  in  Venice. 
Enter  OTHELLO,  IAGO,  and  Attendants. 

lago.  Though  in  the  trade  of  war  I  have  slain  men. 
Yet  do  1  hold  it  very  stuff  o'  the  conscience, 
To  do  no  contriv'd  murder ;  I  lack  iniquity 
Sometimes,  to  do  me  service :  Nine  or  ten  times 
I  had  thought  to  have  yerk'd  him  here  under  the  ribs. 

Ofh.  'Tis  better  as  it  is. 

lago.  Nay,  but  he  pratea, 

And  spoke  such  scurvy  and  provoking  terms 
Against  your  honor, 
That,  with  the  little  godliness  I  have, 
I  did  full  hard  forbear  him.     But,  I  pray,  sir, 
Are  you  fast  married  ?  for,  be  sure  of  this, — 
That  the  magnifico  is  much  beloved  ; 
And  hath,  in  his  effect,  a  voice  potential, 
As  double  as  the  duke's  ;  he  will  divorce  you ; 
Or  put  upon  you  what  restraint  and  grievance 
The  law  (with  all  his  might  to  enforce  it  on,) 
Will  give  him  cable. 

Oth.  Let  him  do  his  spite  : 

My  services,  which  I  have  done  the  signiory, 
Shall  out-tongue  his  complaints.     'Tis  yet  to  know, 
(Which,  when  I  know  that  boasting  is  an  honor, 
I  shall  promulgate,)  I  fetch  my  life  and  being 
From  men  of  royal  siege ;  and  my  demerits 
May  speak,  unbonnetted,  to  as  proud  a  fortune 
As  this  that  I  have  reach'd :  For  know,  lago, 
But  that  I  love  the  gentle  Desdemona, 
I  would  not  my  unhoused  free  condition 
Put  into  circumscription  and  confine 
For  the  sea's  worth.     But,  look !  what  lights  come  yonder  ? 

Enter  CASSIO,  at  a  distance,  and  certain  Officers,  with  torches 
lago.  These  are  the  raised  father,  and  his  friends : 

You  were  best  go  in. 

Oth.  Not  I :  I  must  be  found ; 

My  parts,  my  title,  and  my  perfect  soul, 

Shall  manifest  me  rightly.     Is  it  they  ? 
lago.  By  Janus,  I  think  no. 


OTHELLO.  147 

Olh.  The  servants  of  the  duke  and  my  lieutenant. 
The  goodness  of  the  night  upon  you,  friends  ! 
What  is  the  news  ? 

Gas.  The  duke  does  greet  you,  general ; 

And  he  requires  your  haste-post-haste  appearance, 
Even  on  the  instant. 

Ofh.  What  is  the  matter,  think  you  ? 

Cas.  Something  from  Cyprus,  as  I  may  divine  ; 
It  is  a  business  of  some  heat :  the  gallies 
Have  sent  a  dozen  sequent  messengers 
This  very  night,  at  one  another's  heels ; 
And  many  of  the  consuls,  rais'd,  and  met, 
Are  at  the  duke's  already :  You  have  been  hotly  call'd  for ; 
When,  being  not  at  your  lodging  to  be  found, 
The  senate  hath  sent  about  three  several  quests, 
To  search  you  out. 

Oth.  JTis  well  I  am  found  by  you. 

I  will  but  spend  a  word  here  in  the  house, 
And  go  with  you.  [Exit. 

Cas.  Ancient,  what  makes  he  here  ? 

lago.  He's  married. 

Cas.  To  whom  ? 

Re-enter  OTHELLO. 

lago.  Marry,  to — Come,  captain,  will  you  go  ? 

Oth.  Have  with  you. 

Cas.  Here  comes  another  troop  to  seek  for  you. 

Enter  BRABANTIO,  RODE.RIGO,  and  Officers  of  night,  with  torches  and 
weapons. 

lago.  It  is  Brabantio  : — general,  be  advis'd ; 
He  comes  to  bad  intent. 

Oth.  Hola  !  stand  there  ! 

Rod.  Signior,  it  is  the  Moor. 

Bra.  Down  with  him,  thief! 

[They  draw  on  both  sides, 

lago.  You,  Roderigo  !  come,  sir,  I  am  for  you. 

Oth.  Keep  up  your  bright  swords,  for  the  dew  will  rust  them.  — 
Good  signior,  you  shall  more  command  with  years, 
Than  with  your  weapons. 

Bra.  O  thou  foul  thief,  where  hast  thou  stow'd  my  daughter  ? 
Thou  hast  enchanted  her : 
For  I'll  refer  me  to  all  things  of  sense, 
If  she  in  chains  of  magic  were  not  bound, 
Whether  a  maid — so  tender,  fair,  and  happy , 
So  opposite  to  marriage,  that  she  shunn'd 
The  wealthy  curled  darlings  of  our  nation, 
Would  ever  have,  to  incur  a  general  moo«, 
Run  from  her  guardage  to  the  sooty  bosom 
Of  such  a  tiling  as  thou : 


148  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Thou  hast  practis'd  on  her  with  foul  charms. 
I  therefore  apprehend  and  do  attach  thee, 
For  an  abuser  of  the  world,  a  practiser 
Of  arts  inhibited  and  out  of  warrant : — 
Lay  hold  upon  him :  if  he  do  resist, 
Subdue  him  at  his  peril. 

Oth,  Hold  your  hands, 

Both  you  of  my  inclining,  and  the  rest : 
Were  it  my  cue  to  fight,  I  would  have  known  it 
Without  a  prompter.— Where  will  you  that  I  go 
To  answer  this  your  charge  ? 

Bra.  To  prison  :  till  fit  tins . 

Of  law,  and  course  of  direct  session, 
Call  thee  to  answer. 

Oth.  What  if  I  do  obey  ? 

How  may  the  duke  be  therewith  satisfied ; 
Whose  messengers  are  here  about  my  side, 
Upon  some  present  business  of  the  state, 
To  bring  me  to  him. 

Off.  'Tis  true,  most  worthy  signior 

The  duke's  in  council ;  and  your  noble  self, 
I  am  sure,  is  sent  for. 

Bra.  How,  the  duke  in  council ! 

In  this  time  of  the  night ! — Bring  him  away  : 
Mine's  not  an  idle  cause  :  the  duke  himself, 
Or  any  of  my  brothers  of  the  state 
Cannot  but  feel  this  wrong,  as  'twere  their  own : 
For  if  such  actions  may  have  passage  free, 
Bond-slaves, and  pagans,  shall  our  statesmen  be.  [Exeunt 

SCENE  III. — The  Same.     A  Council  Cham'cer. 

The  DUKE,  and  Senators,  sitting  at  a  table ;  Officers  attending. 

Duke.  There  is  no  composition  in  these  news, 
That  gives  them  credit. 

1st  Sen.  Indeed,  they  are  disproportion'd ; 

My  letters  say,  a  hundred  and  seven  gallies. 

Duke.  And  mine  a  hundred  and  forty. 

2nd  Sen.  And  mine,  two  hundred 

But  though  they  jump  not  on  a  just  account, 
(As  in  these  cases,  where  the  aim  reports, 
'Tis  oft  with  difference,)  yet  do  they  all  confirm 
A  Turkish  fleet,  and  bearing  up  to  Cyprus. 

Duke.  Nay,  it  is  possible  enough  to  judgment. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  The  Ottomites,  reverend  and  gracious, 
Steering  with  due  course  toward  the  isle  of  Rhodes, 
Have  there  injointed  them  with  an  after  fleet. 

1st  Sen.  Ay,  so  I  thought : — How  many,  as  you  guess  ? 


OTHELLO.  149 

Mess.  Of  thirty  sail :  and  now  do  they  re-stem 
Their  backward  course,  bearing  with  frank  appearance 
Their  purposes  towards  Cyprus. — Signior  Montano, 
Your  trusty  and  most  valiant  servitor, 
With  his  free  duty  recommends  you  thus, 
And  prays  you  to  believe  him. 
Duke.  'Tis  certain  then  for  Cyprus. — 
1st  Sen.  Hero  comes  Brabantio,  and  the  valiant  Moor. 

Enter  BRABANTIO,  OTHELLO,  IAGO,  RODERIGO,  and  Officers. 

Duke.  Valiant  Othello,  we  must  straight  employ  you 
Against  the  general  enemy  Ottoman. 

I  did  not  see  you ;  welcome,  gentle  signior,  [To  BRABANTHX 

We  lack'd  your  counsel  and  your  help  to-night. 

Bra.  So  did  I  yours  :  Good  your  grace,  pardon  me ; 
Neither  my  place,  nor  aught  I  heard  of  business, 
Hath  rais'd  me  from  my  bed ;  nor  doth  the  general  care 
Take  hold  on  me ;  for  my  particular  grief 
Is  of  so  flood-gate  and  o'erbearing  nature, 
That  it  engluts  and  swallows  other  sorrows, 
And  it  is  still  itself. 

Duke.  Why,  what's  the  matter  f> 

Bra.  My  daughter  !  O,  my  daughter ! 

Sen.  Dead ' 

Bra.  Aye,  to  me : 

She  is  abus'd,  stol'n  from  me,  and  corrupted 
By  spells  and  medicines  bought  of  mountobanks  : 
For  nature  so  preposterously  to  err, 
Being  not  deficient,  blind,  or  lame  of  sense, 
Sans  witchcraft  could  not 

Duke.  Whoe'er  he  be,  that,  in  this  foul  proceeding 
Hath  thus  beguil'd  your  daughter  of  herself, 
And  you  of  her,  the  bloody  book  of  law 
You  shall  yourself  read  in  the  bitter  letter, 
After  your  own  sense  ;  yea,  though  our  proper  son 
Stood  in  your  action. 

Bra.    '  Humbly  I  thank  your  grace. 

Here  is  the  man,  this  Moor ;  whom  now,  it  seems, 
Your  special  mandate,  for  the  state  affairs, 
Hath  hither  brought. 

Duke  ($•  Sen.  We  are  very  sorry  for  it. 

Duke.  What,  in  your  own  part,  can  you  say  to  this  ? 

[To  OTHELLO 

Bra.  Nothing,  but  this  is  so. 

Oth.  Most  potent,  grave,  and  reverend  signiors, 
My  very  noble  and  approv'd  good  masters, — 
That  I  have  ta'en  away  this  old  man's  daughter, 
It  is  most  true  ;  true,  I  have  married  her  ; 
The  very  head  and  front  of  my  offending 


150  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Ham  this  extent  no  more.     Rude  am  I  in  my  speech, 

And  little  bless'd  with  the  set  phrase  of  peace ; 

For  since  these  arms  of  mine  had  seven  years'  pith, 

Till  now  some  nine  moons  wasted,  they  have  us'd 

Their  dearest  action  in  the  tented  field ; 

And  little  of  this  great  world  can  I  speak, 

More  than  pertains  to  feats  of  broil  and  battle ;  " 

And  therefore  little  shall  I  grace  my  cause, 

In  speaking  for  myself:  Yet,  by  your  gracious  patience, 

I  will  a  round  unvarnish'd  tale  deliver 

Of  my  whole  course  of  love :  what  drugs,  what  charms 

What  conjuration,  and  what  mighty  magic, 

(For  such  proceeding  I  am  charg'd  withal,)    » 

I  won  his  daughter  with. 

Bra.  A  maiden  never  bold ; 

Of  spirit  so  still  and  quiet,  that  her  motion 
Blush'd  at  herself;  And  she, — in  spite  of  nature, 
Of  years,  of  country,  credit,  every  thing, — 
To  fall  in  love  with  what  she  fear'd  to  look  on  ? 
It  is  a  judgment  maim'd,  and  most  imperfect, 
That  will  confess — perfection  so  could  err 
Against  all  rules  of  nature. 
I  therefore  vouch  again, 

That  with  some  mixtures  powerful  o'er  the  blood, 
Or  with  some  dram  conjur'd  to  this  effect, 
He  wrought  upon  her. 

Duke.  To  vouch  this,  is  no  proof ;  Othello,  speak  ;— - 
Did  you  by  indirect  and  forc'd  courses 
Subdue  and  poison  this  young  maid's  affections ; 
Or  came  it  by  request,  and  such  fair  question 
As  soul  to  soul  affordeth? 

Oih.  I  do  beseech  you, 

Send  for  the  lady  to  the  Sagittary, 
And  let  her  speak  of  me  before  her  father : 
If  you  do  find  me  foul  in  her  report, 
The  trust,  the  office,  I  do  hold  of  you, 
Not  only  take  away,  but  let  your  sentence 
Even  fall  upon  my  life. 

Duke.  Fetch  Desdemona  hither. 

Oth.  Ancient,  conduct  them  :  you  best  know  the  place. — 

[Exeunt  IAGO,  and  Attendant 
And,  till  she  come,  as  truly  as  to  heaven 
1  do  confess  the  vices  of  my  blood, 
So  justly  to  your  grave  ears  I'll  present 
How  I  did  thrive  in  this  fair  lady's  love, 
And  she  in  mine. 

Duke.  Say  it,  Othello. 

Oth.  Her  father  lov'd  me ;  oft  invited  me ; 
Still  questioned  me  the  story  of  my  life, 


OTHELLO.  151 

From  year  to  year ;  the  battles,  sieges,  fortunes, 

That  I  have  pass'd. 

I  ran  it  through,  even  from  my  boyish  days, 

To  the  very  moment  that  he  bade  me  tell  it. 

Wherein  I  spoke  of  most  disastrous  chances, 

Of  moving  accidents,  by  flood  and  field ; 

Of  hair-breadth  scapes  i'  the  imminent  deadly  breach ; 

Of  being  taken  by  the  insolent  foe, 

And  sold  to  slavery ;  of  my  redemption  thence, 

Ant!  portarice  in  my  travel's  history  : 

Wherein  of  antres  vast,  and  deserts  wild, 

Rough  quarries,  rocks,  and  hills  whose  heads  touch  heaven, 

It  was  my  hint  to  speak,  such  was  the  process ; 

And  of  the  Cannibals  that  each  other  eat, 

The  Anthropophagi,  and  men  whose  heads 

Do  grew  beneath  their  shoulders.     These  things  to  hear, 

Would  Desdemona  seriously  incline  : 

But  still  the  house  affairs  would  draw  her  thence  ; 

Which  ever  as  she  could  with  haste  dispatch, 

She'd  come  again,  and  with  a  greedy  ear 

Devour  up  my  discourse  :  Which  I  observing, 

Took  once  a  pliant  hour ;  and  found  good  means 

To  draw  from  her  a  prayer  of  earnest  heart, 

That  I  would  all  my  pilgrimage  dilate, 

Whereof  by  parcels  she  had  something  heard, 

But  not  intentively  :  I  did  consent ; 

And  often  did  beguile  her  of  her  tears, 

When  I  did  speak  of  some  distressful  stroke, 

That  my  youth  suffer'd.     My  story  being  done, 

She  gave  me  for  my  pains  a  world  of  sighs  : 

She  swore, — In  faith,  'twas  strange,  'twas  passing  bwange 

'Twas  pitiful,  'twas  wondrous  pitiful : 

She  wish'd,  she  had  not  heard  it ;  yet  she  wish'd 

That  heaven  had  made  her  such  a  man :  she  tharik'd  me  ; 

And  bade  me,  if  I  had  a  friend  that  lov'd  her, 

I  should  but  teach  him  how  to  tell  my  story, 

And  that  would  woo  her.     Upon  this  hint,  I  spake  • 

She  lov'd  me  for  the  dangers  I  had  pass'd  ; 

And  I  lov'd  her,  that  she  did  pity  them. 

This  only  is  the  witchcraft  I  have  us'd : 

Here  comes  the  lady,  let  her  witness  it. 

Enter  DESDEMONA,  IAGO,  and  Attendants. 

Diike.  I  think,  this  tale  would  win  my  daughter  too. 
Good  Brabantio, 

Take  up  this  mangled  matter  at  the  best : 
Men  do  their  broken  weapons  rather  use,' 
Than  their  bare  hands. 

Bra.  I  pray  you,  hear  her  speak ; 

If  she  confess,  that  she  was  half  the  wooer, 


152  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Destruction  on  my  head,  if  my  bad  blame 
Light  on  the  man  ! — Come  hither,  gentle  mistress ; 
Do  you  perceive  in  all  this  noble  company, 
Where  most  you  owe  obedience  ? 

Des.  My  noble  father, 

I  do  perceive  here  a  divided  duty : 
To  you,  I  am  bound  for  life,  and  education ; 
My  life,  and  education,  both  do  learn  me 
How  to  respect  you  ;  you  are  the  lord  of  duty, 
I  am  hitherto  your  daughter :  But  here's  my  husband  ; 
And  so  much  duty  as  my  mother  show'd 
To  you,  preferring  you  before  her  father, 
So  much  I  challenge  that  I  may  profess 
Due  to  the  Moor,  my  lord. 

Bra.  Heaven  be  with  you  ! — I  have  done  : — 
Come  hither,  Moor  : 

I  here  do  give  thee  that  with  all  my  heart, 
Which,  but  thou  hast  already,  with  all  my  heart, 
I  would  keep  from  thee.     I  have  done,  my  lord. 
Proceed  to  tho  affairs  of  state. 

Duke.  The  Turk  with  a  most  mighty  preparation  ma^es  for  Cy- 
prus : — Othello,  the  fortitude  of  the  place  is  best  known  to  you :  you 
must  therefore  be  content  to  slubber  the  gloss  of  your  new  fortune* 
with  this  more  stubborn  and  boisterous  expedition. 

Oth.  The  tyrant  custom,  most  grave  senators, 
Hath  made  the  flinty  and  steel  couch  of  war 
My  thrice-driven  bed  of  down :  I  do  agnize 
A  natural  and  prompt  alacrity, 
I  find  in  hardness ;  and  do  undertake 
These  present  wars  against  the  Ottomites. 
Most  humbly  therefore  bending  to  your  state, 
I  crave  fit  disposition  for  my  wife  ; 
Due  reference  of  place,  and  exhibition  ; 
With  such  accommodation,  and  besort, 
As  levels  with  her  breeding. 

Duke.  If  you  please, 

Be't  at  her  father's. 

Bra.  I'll  not  have  it  so. 

Oth.  Nor  I. 

Des.  Nor  I ;  I  would  not  there  reside, 

To  put  my  father  in  impatient  thoughts, 
By  being  in  his  eye.     Most  gracious  duke, 
To  my  unfolding  lend  a  prosperous  ear ; 
And  let  me  find  a  charter  in  your  voice, 
To  assist  my  simpleness. 

Duke.  What  would  you,  Desdemona  ? 

Des.  That  I  did  love  the  Moor  to  live  with  him, 
My  downright  violence  and  scorn  of  fortunes 
May  trumpet  to  the  world :  ray  heart's  subdued 


OTHELLO.  153 

Even  to  the  very  quality  of  my  lord : 
I  saw  Othello's  visage  in  his  mind ; 
And  to  his  honors,  and  his  valiant  parts, 
Did  I  my  soul  and  fortunes  consecrate, 
So  that,"dear  lords,  if  I  be  left  behind, 
A  moth  of  peace,  and  he  go  to  the  war, 
I  shall  a  heavy  interim  support 
By  his  dear  absence :  Let  me  go  with  him. 

Oih.  Your  voices,  lords : — 'beseech  you,  "et  her  mil 
Have  a  free  way. 

Duke.  Be  it  as  you  shall  privately  determine, 
Either  for  her  stay,  or  going :  the  affair  cries — haste, 
And  speed  must  answer  it ;  you  must  hence  to-night. 

Des.  To-night,  my  lord  ? 

Duke.  This  night. 

Oih.  With  all  my  heart 

Duke.  At  nine  i'  the  morning  here  we'll  meet  again. 
Othello,  leave  some  officer  behind, 
And  he  shall  our  commission  bring  to  you ; 
With  such  things  else  of  quality  and  respect, 
As  doth  import  you. 

Oth.  Please  your  grace,  my  ancient ; 

A  man  he  is  of  honesty,  and  trust : 
To  his  conveyance  I  assign  my  wife, 
With  what  else  needful  your  good  grace  shall  think 
To  be  sent  after  me. 

Duke.  Let  it  be  so. — 

Good  night  to  every  one. — And,  noble  signior,          [To  BRABANTIO. 
If  virtue  no  delighted  beauty  lack, 
Your  son-in-law  is  far  more  fair  than  black. 

Bra.  Look  to  her,  Moor :  have  a  quick  eye  to  see'; 
She  has  deceiv'd  her  father,  and  may  thee. 

[Exeunt  DUKE,  Senators,  Officers,  cf«c. 

Oih.  My  life  upon  her  faith. — Honest  lago, 
My  Desdemona  must  I  leave  to  thee  ; 
I  pr'ythee,  let  thy  wife  attend  on  her  ; 
And  bring  them  after  in  the  best  advantage. — 
Come,  Desdemona,  I  have  but  an  hour 
Of  love,  of  worldly  matters  and  direction, 
To  spend  with  thee :  we  must  obey  the  time. 

[Exeunt  OTHELLO,  and  DESDEMONA 

ACT  II. 

SCENE  I. — A  Sea-port  Town  in  Cyprus. 

Dosdefttona,  escorted  by  lago,  has  proceeded  to  Cyprus,  where  she  is  anxiously  await 
Ing  the  arrival  of  Othello  from  his  victorious  expedition  against  the  Ottomites. 
to*  Moor's  lieutenant,  has  just  landed  at  Cyprus. 

8* 


154  SHAKSPEARIAN   READER. 

Enter  CASSTO,  and  MONTANO. 

Cas.  Thanks  to  the  valiant  of  this  warlike  isle 
That  so  approve  the  Moor  ;  O,  let  the  heavens, 
jive  him  defence  against  the  elements, 
For  I  have  lost  him  on  a  dangerous  sea  ! 

Mon.  Is  he  well  shipp'd  ? 

Cas.  His  bark  is  stoutly  timber'd,  and  his  pilot 
)f  very  expert  and  approv'd  allowance  ; 
Therefore  my  hopes,  not  surfeited  to  death, 
Stand  in  bold  cure. 

[  Within.']  A  sail,  a  sail,  a  sail ! 

Enter  a  Gentleman. 

Cas.  What  noise  ? 

Gent.  The  town  is  empty  ;  on  the  brow  o'  the  sea 
Stand  ranks  of  people,  and  they  cry — a  sail. 

Cas.  My  hopes  do  shape  him  for  the  governor. 

Gent.  They  do  discharge  their  shot  of  courtesy.         [Guns  heard 
Our  friends  at  least. 

Cas.  I  pray  you,  sir,  go  forth, 

And  give  us  truth  who  'tis  that  is  arriv'd. 

Gent.  I  shall.  [Exit. 

Mon.  But,  good  lieutenant,  is  your  general  wiv'd  ? 

Cas.  Most  fortunately :  he  hath  achiev'd  a  maid 
That  paragons  description,  and  wild  fame  ; 
One  that  excels  the  quirks  of  blazoning  pens, 
And  in  the  essential  vesture  of  creation, 
Does  bear  all  excellency. — How  now  ?  who  has  put  in  ? 
Re-enter  Gentleman. 

Gent.  'Tis  one  lago,  ancient  to  the  general. 

Cas.  He  has  made  most  favorable  and  happy  speed : 
Tempests  themselves,  high  seas,  and  howling  winds, 
The  gutter'd  rocks,  and  congregated  sands, — 
Traitors  ensteep'd  to  clog  the  guiltless  keel, 
As  having  sense  of  beauty,  do  omit 
Their  mortal  natures,  letting  go  safely  by 
The  divine  Desdemona. 

Mem.  What  is  she  ? 

Cas.  She  that  I  spake  of,  our  great  captain's  captain, 
Left  in  the  conduct  of  the  bold  lao-o  ; 
O,  behold, 

Enter  DESDEMONA,  EMILIA,  IAGO,  RODEKIGO,  and  Attendants. 
The  riches  of  the  ship  is  come  on  shore  ! 
Hail  to  thee,  lady  !  and  the  grace  of  heaven, 
Before,  behind  thee,  and  on  every  hand, 
Enwheel  thee  round ! 

Des.  I  thank  you,  valiant  Cassia. 

What  tidings  can  you  tell  me  of  my  lord  ? 


OTHELLO.  155 

Cas.  He  is  not  yet  arriv'd ;  nor  know  I  aught 
But  that  he's  well,  and  will  be  shortly  here. 

Des.  O,  but  I  fear  ; — How  lost  you  company  ? 

Cas.  The  great  contention  of  the  sea  and  skies 
Parted  our  fellowship  :  But,  hark  !  a  sail. 

See  for  the  news. —  [Exit  Gentleman. 

Good  ancient,  you  are  welcome  ; — Welcome,  mistress  :    [  To  EIVCLIA. 
Let  it  not  gall  your  patience,  good  lago, 
That  I  extend  my  manners  ;  'tis  my  breeding 
That  gives  me  this  bold  show  of  courtesy.  [Kissing  her. 

lago.  Sir,  would  she  give  you  so  much  of  her  lips, 
As  of  her  tongue  she  oft  bestows  on  me, 
You'd  have  enough. 

Des.  Alas,  she  has  no  speech. 

lago.  In  faith,  too  much  ; 
I  find  it  still,  when  I  have  list  to  sleep  : 
Marry,  before  your  ladyship,  I  grant, 
She  puts  her  tongue  a  little  in  her  heart, 
And  chides  with  thinking. 

Emil.  You  have  little  cause  to  say  so. 

Des.  O,  fye  upon  thee,  slanderer  ! 

lago.  Nay,  it  is  true,  or  else  I  am  a  Turk. 

Emil.  You  shall  not  write  my  praise. 

lago.  No,  let  me  not 

Des.  What  would'st  thou  write  of  me,  if  thou  should's;  praise  me  1 

lago.  O  gentle  lady,  do  not  put  me  to't ; 
For  I  am  nothing,  if  not  critical. 

Des.  Come  on,  assay  : — There's  one  gone  to  die  harbor  ? 

lago.  Ay,  madam. 

Des.  1  am  not  merry  ;  but  I  do  beguile 
The  thing  I  am,  by  seeming  otherwise. 
Come,  how  would'st  thou  praise  me  ? 

lago.  I  am  about  it ;  but,  indeed,  my  invention 
Comes  from  my  pate,  as  birdlime  does  from  frize, 
It  plucks  out  brains  and  all. 
She  that  was  ever  fair,  and  never  proud, 
Had  tongue  at  will ,  and  yet  was  never  loud  ; 
Never  lack'd  gold,  and  yet  went  never  gay  ; 
Fled  from  her  wish,  and  yet  said, — now  I  may. 
She  that,  being  anger'd,  her  revenge  being  nigh, 
Bade  her  wrong  stay,  and  her  displeasure  fly  : 
She  that  could  think,  and  ne'er  disclose  her  mind, 
See  suitors  following,  and  not  look  behind, 
She  was  a  wight, — if  ever  such  wight  were, — 

Des.  To  do  what  ? 

lago.  To  nurse  young  fools,  and  chronicle  small  beer. 

Des.  O  most  lame  and  impotent  conclusion  ! — Do  not  leani  of  him, 
Emilia,  though  he  be  thy  husband. — How  say  you,  Cassio  ?  is  he  not 
a  most  profane  and  liberal  counsellor  ? 


J56  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Cas.  He  speaks  home,  madam  ;  you  may  relish  him  more  in  the 
soldier,  than  in  the  scholar. 

lago.  [Aside.]  He  takes  her  by  the  palm :  Ay.  well  said,  whis- 
per :  with  as  little  a  web  as  this,  will  I  ensnare  as  great  a  fly  as 
Cassio.  Ay,  smile  upon  him,  do ;  I  will  gyve  thee  in  thine  own 
courtship.  You  say  true  ;  'tis  so,  indeed :  if  such  tricks  as  these 
strip  you  out  of  your  lieutenancy,  it  had  been  better  you  had  not 
kissed  your  three  fingers  sc  oft,  which  now  again  you  are  most  apt 
to  play  the  sir  in.  Very  good  ;  well  kissed  !  an  excellent  courtesy  ! 
'tis  so,  indeed.  Yet  again  your  fingers  to  your  lips  ?— [Trumpet.* 
The  Moor,  I  know  his  trumpet. 

Cas.  Tis  truly  so. 

Des.  Let's  meet  him,  and  receive  him. 

Cas.  Lo,  where  he  comes  ! 

Enter  OTHELLO,  and  Attendants. 

Oth.  O  my  fair  warrior  ! 

Des.  My  dear  Othello  ! 

Oth.  It  gives  me  wonder  great  as  my  content, 
To  see  you  here  before  me.     O  my  soul's  joy  ! 
If  after  every  tempest  come  such  calms, 
May  the  winds  blow  till  they  have  waken'd  death ! 
If  it  were  now  to  die, 
'Twere  now  to  be  most  happy  ;  for,  I  fear, 
My  soul  hath  her  content  so  absolute, 
That  not  another  comfort  like  to  this 
Succeeds  in  unknown  fate. 

Des.  The  heavens  forbid, 

But  that  our  loves  and  comforts  should  increase, 
Even  as  our  days  do  grow  ! 

Oth.  Amen  to  that,  sweet  powers  ! — 

I  cannot  speak  enough  of  this  content, 
It  stops  me  here  ;  it  is  too  much  of  joy  : 

And  this,  and  this,  the  greatest  discords  be,  [Kissing  her 

That  e'er  our  hearts  shall  make. 

lago.  O,  you  are  well  tun'd  now  ! 

But  I'll  set  down  the  pegs  that  make  this  music, 
As  honest  as  I  am.  \Aside. 

Oth.  Gome's,  let's  to  the  castle. 

News,  friends ;  our  wars  are  done,  the  Turks  are  drown'd, 
How  do  our  old  acquaintance  of  this  isle  ? 
Honey,  you  shall  be  well  dosir'd  in  Cyprus, 
I  have  found  great  love  amongst  them.     O  my  sweet. 
I  prattle  out  of  fashion,  and  I  dote 
In  mine  own  comforts. — I  pr'ythee,  good  lago, 
Go  to  the  bay,  and  disembark  my  coffers : 
Bring  thou  the  master  to  the  citadel ; 
He  is  a  good  one,  and  his  worthiness 


OTHELLO.  157 

Does  challenge  much  respect. — Come,  Desdemona, 
Once  more  well  met  at  Cyprus. 

logo  now  commences  his  plots  against  the  Moor :    his  first  movement  is  to  put  Qthellc 

"  into  a  jealousy  so  strong, 

That  judgment  cannot  cure," 

and  Cassio  is  the  instrument  he  selects  for  his  purpose.  Under  the  plea  of  "  carousing  "  to 
the  health  of  the  General  and  his  fair  wife,  he  leads  Cassio  into  a  drunken  brawl,  while  .he 
Lieutenant  is  on  guard  at  the  CastJe.  Othelio  enters  to  learn  the  cause  of  the  .\U- 
turbance. 

OTHELLO,  IAGO,  CASSIO,  MONTANO,  and  Attendants. 

Oth.  What  is  the  matter  here  ? 

Mon.  I  bleed  still,  I  am  hurt  to  the  death ; — he  dies 

Oth.  Hold,  for  your  lives. 

lago.  'Hold,  hold,  lieutenant, — sir,  Montano, — gentlemen, — 
Have  you  forgot  all  sense  of  place  and  duty  ? 
Hold,  hold  !  the  general  speaks  to  you  ;  hold,  for  shame ! 

Oth.  Why,  how  now,  ho  !  from  whence  ariseth  this  ? 
Are  we  turn'd  Turks  ;  and  to  ourselves  do  that, 
Which  heaven  hath  forbid  the  Ottomites  ? 
For  Christian  shame,  put  by  this  barbarous  brawl : 
He  that  stirs  next  to  carve  for  his  own  rage, 
Holds  his  soul  light ;  he  dies  upon  his  motion. — 
Silence  that  dreadful  bell,  it  frights  the  isle 
From  her  propriety. — What  is  the  matter,  masters  ? — 
Honest  lago,  that  look'st  dead  with  grieving, 
Speak,  who  began  this  ?  on  thy  love,  I  charge  thee. 

lago.  I  do  not  know  ; — friends  all  but  now,  even  now  : 
And  then,  but  now, 
(As  if  some  planet  had  unwitted  men,) 
Swords  out,  and  tilting  one  at  other's  breast, 
In  opposition  bloody.     I  cannot  speak 
Any  beginning  to  this  peevish  odds  ; 
And  'would  in  action  glorious  I  had  lost 
These  legs,  that  brought  me  to  a  part  of  it ! 

Oth.  How  comes  it,  Michael,  you  are  thus  forgot  ? 

Cas.  I  pray  you,  pardon  me,  I  cannot  speak. 

Oth.  Worthy  Montano,  you  were  wont  be  civil ; 
The  gravity  and  stillness  of  your  youth 
The  world  hath  noted,  and  your  name  is  great 
In  mouths  of  wisest  censure  ;  What's  the  matter, 
That  you  unlace  your  reputation  thus, 
And  spend  your  rich  opinion,  for  the  name 
Of  a  night-brawler  ?  give  me  answer  to  it. 

Mon.  Worthy  Othello,  I  am  hurt  to  danger ; 
Your  officer,  lago,  can  inform  you — 
While  I  spare  speech,  which  something  now  offends  me  :- 
Of  all  that  I  do  know  :  nor  know  I  aught 


158  SHAKSPEARIAN   READER. 

By  me  that's  said  or  done  amiss  this  night ; 
Unless  self-charity  be  sometime  a  vice  ; 
And  to  defend  ourselves  it  be  a  sin, 
When  violence  assails  us. 

Oih.  Now,  by  heaven, 

My  blood  begins  my  safer  guides  to  rule  ; 
And  passion,  having  my  best  judgment  collied, 
Assays  to  lead  the  way  :  If  I  once  stir, 
Or  do  but  lift  this  arm,  the  best  of  you 
Shall  sink  in  my  rebuke.     Give  me  to  know 
How  this  foul  rout  began,  who  set  it  on  : 
And  he  that  is  approv'd  in  this  offence, 
Shall  lose  me. — What !  in  a  town  oi  war, 
Yet  wild,  the  people's  hearts  brimful  of  fear, 
To  manage  private  and  domestic  quarrel, 
In  night,  and  on  the  court  and  guard  of  safety  ! 
Tis  monstrous. — lago,  who  began  it  ? 

Mon.  If  partially  affin'd,  or  leagu'd  in  office, 
Thou  dost  deliver  more  or  less  than  truth, 
Thou  art  no  soldier. 

lago.  Touch  me  not  so  near  : 

I  had  rather  have  this  tongue  cut  from  my  mouth 
Than  it  should  do  offence  to  Michael  Cassio ; 
Yet,  I  persuade  myself,  to  speak  the  truth 
Shall  nothing  wrong  him. — Thus  it  is,  general. 
Montano  and  myself  being  in  speech, 
There  comes  a  fellow,  crying  out  for  help ; 
And  Cassio  following  him  with  determin'd  sword, 
To  execute  upon  him  :  Sir,  this  gentleman 
Steps  in  to  Cassio,  and  entreats  his  pause  ; 
Myself  the  crying  fellow  did  pursue, 
Lest,  by  his  clamor,  (as  it  so  fell  out,) 
The  town  might  fall  in  fright :  he,  swift  of  foot, 
Outran  my  purpose ;  and  I  return'd  the  rather 
For  that  I  heard  the  clink  and  fall  of  swords, 
And  Cassio  high  in  oath ;  which,  till  to-night, 
I  ne'er  might  say  before  :  When  I  came  back, 
(For  this  was  brief,)  I  found  them  close  together, 
At  blow,  and  thrust ;  even  as  again  they  were, 
When  you  yourself  did  part  them. 
More  of  this  matter  can  I  not  report : — 
But  men  are  men  :  the  best  sometimes  forget : — 
Though  Cassio  did  some  little  wrong  to  him, — 
As  men  in  rage  strike  those  that  wish  them  beat,-— 
Yet,  surely  Cassio,  I  believe,  receiv'd, 
From  him  that  fled,  some  strange  indignity, 
Which  patience  cou  d  not  pass. 

Oth.  I  know,  lago, 

Thy  honesty  and  love  doth  mince  this  matter, 


OTHELLO.  159 

Making  it  -ight  to  Cassio : — Cassio,  I  love  the*. , 

But  never  more  be  officer  of  mine. —  [Exit. 

lago.  What,  are  you  hurt,  lieutenant  ? 

Cas.  Ay,  past  all  surgery. 

lago.  Marry,  heaven  forbid ! 

Cas.  Reputation,  reputation,  reputation !  O,  I  have  .ost  my  repu' 
tation!  I  have  lost  the  immortal  part. — My  reputation,  lago,  my 
reputation, 

lago.  As  I  am  an  honest  man,  I  thought  you  had  received  some 
bodily  wound ;  there  is  more  offence  in  that,  than  in  reputation. 
Reputation  is  an  idle  and  most  false  imposition;  oft  got  without 
merit,  and  lost  without  deserving  :  you  have  lost  no  reputation  at  all, 
unless  you  repute  yourself  such  a  loser.  What,  man !  there  are 
ways  to  recover  the  general  again :  sue  to  him  again,  and  he  ia 
yours. 

Cas.  I  will  rather  sue  to  be  despised,  than  to  deceive  so  good  a 
commander,  with  so  slight,  so  drunken,  and  so  indiscreet  an  officer. 
O  thou  invisible  spirit  of  wine,  if  thou  hadst  no  name  to  be  known 
by,  let  us  call  thee — devil ! 

lago.  What  was  he  that  you  follow'd  with  your  sword  ?  What 
had  he  done  to  you  ? 

Cas.  I  know  not. 

lago.  Is  it  possible  ? 

Cas.  I  remember  a  mass  of  things,  but  nothing  distinctly ;  a  quar- 
rel, but  nothing  wherefore. — O,  that  men  should  put  an  .enemy  in 
their  mouths  to  steal  away  their  brains !  that  we  should,  with  joy, 
revel,  pleasure,  and  applause,  transform  ourselves  into  beasts  ! 

lago.  Why,  but  you  are  now  well  enough  :  How  came  you  thus 
recovered  ? 

Cas.  It  hath  pleased  the  demon  drunkenness,  to  give  place  to  the 
demon  wrath :  one  unperfectness  shows  me  another  to  make  me 
frankly  despise  myself. 

lago.  I  could  heartily  wish  this  had  not  befallen ;  but,  since  it  is 
as  it  is,  mend  it  for  your  own  good. 

Cfls.  I  will  ask  him  for  my  place  again  ;  he  shall  tell  me,  I  am  a 
drunkard  !  Had  I  as  many  mouths  as  Hydra,  such  an  answer  would 
stop  them  all.  To  be  now  a  sensible  man,  by  and  by  a  fool,  and  pre- 
sently a  beast !  O  strange  ! — Every  inordinate  cup  is  unblessed,  and 
the  ingredient  is  a  demon. 

lago.  Come,  come,  good  wine  is  a  good  familiar  creature,  if  it  be 
well  used ;  exclaim  no  more  against  it.  And,  good  lieutenant,  I 
think,  you  think  I  love  you. 

Cas.  I  have  well  approved  it,  sir. — I  drunk  ! 

lago.  You,  or  any  man  living,  may  be  drunk  at  some  time,  man. 
I'll  tell  you  what  you  shall  do.  Our  general's  wife  is  now  the 
general ; — I  may  say  so  in  this  respect,  for  that  he  hath  devoted  and 
given  up  himself  to  the  contemplation,  mark,  and  denotement  of  her 
parts  and  graces  : — confess  yourself  freely  to  her ;  importune  her ; 
she'll  help  to  put  you  in  your  place  again  :  she  is  of  so  free,  so  kind, 


100  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

30  apt,  so  blessed  a  disposition,  that  she  holds  it  a  vice  in  her  good 
less,  not  to  do  more  than  she  is  requested. 

Cas.  You  advise  me  well. 

lago.  I  protest,  in  the  sincerity  of  love,  and  honest  kindness. 

Cas.  I  think  it  freely  ;  and,  betimes  in  the  morning,  I  will  beseech 
.ta  virtuous  Desdemona  to  undertake  for  me :  I  am  desperate  of  my 
fortunes,  if  they  check  me  here. 

lago.  You  are  in  the  right.  Good  night,  lieutenant ;  I  must  to 
the  watch. 

Cas.  Good  night,  honest  lago.  [Exit  CASSIO 

ACT  III. 

IAGO  having  effected  the  disgrace  of  Cassio,  urges  him  to  apply  to  Desdemona,  to 
leek  through  her  entreaties  a  reconciliation  with  Othello.  Cassio  believing  that  lagc 
"  advises  well,"  beseeches  Desdemona  to  interfere  in  his  behalf  with  her  husband  :  sin 
promises  him  her  aid. 

lago  artfully  uses  the  kindness  of  Desdemona,  as  a  means  to  excite  the  jealousy  «f 
Othello. 

Enter  DESDEMONA,  CASSIO,  and  EMILIA. 

Des.  Be  thou  assur'd,  good  Cassio,  I  will  do 
All  my  abilities  in  thy  behalf. 

Emil.  Good  madam,  do  ;  I  know,  it  grieves  my  husband, 
As  if  the  case  were  his. 

Des.  O,  that's  an  honest  fellow. — Do  not  doubt,  Cassio, 
But  I  will  have  my  lord  and  you  again 
As  friendly  as  you  were. 

Cas.  Bounteous  madam, 

Whatever  shall  become  of  Michael  Cassio, 
He's  never  any  thing  but  your  true  servant. 

Des.  O,  sir,  I  thank  you  :  You  do  love  my  lord  : 
You  have  known  him  long ;  and  be  you  well  assur'd, 
He  shall  in  strangeness  stand  no  further  off 
Than  in  a  politic  distance. 

Cas.  Ay,  but,  lady, 

That  policy  may  either  last  so  long, 
Or  feed  upon  such  nice  and  waterish  diet, 
Or  breed  itself  so  out  of  circumstance, 
That,  I  being  absent,  and  my  place  supplied, 
Mj  general  will  forget  my  love  and  service. 

Des.  Do  not  doubt  that :  before  Emilia  here, 
I  give  thee  warrant  of  thy  place ;  assure  thee, 
If  I  do  vow  a  friendship,  I'll  perform  it 
To  the  last  article :  my  lord  shall  never  rest ; 
Pll  intermingle  every  thing  he  does 
With  Cassio's  suit :" Therefore  be  merry,  Cassio; 
For  thy  solicitor  shall  rather  die, 
Than  give  thy  cause  away. 


OTHELLO.  161 

Enter  OTHELLO  and  IAGO,  at  a  distance. 

Emil,  Madam,  here  comes 

Vfy  lord. 

Cas.      Madam,  I'll  take  my  leave. 

Des.  Why,  stay, 

\nd  hear  me  speak. 

Cas.  Madam,  not  now  ;  I  am  very  ill  at  ease, 
Jnfit  for  mine  own  purposes. 

Des.  Well,  well, 

Do  your  discretion.  [Exit  CASSIQ 

lago.  Ha  !  I  like  not  that. 

Oth.  What  dost  thou  say  ? 

lago.  Nothing,  my  lord  :  or  if — I  know  not  what. 

Oth.  Was  not  that  Cassio,  parted  from  my  wife  ? 

lago.  Cassio,  my  lord  ?     No,  sure,  I  cannot  think  it, 
Chat  he  would  steal  away  so  guilty-like, 
Seeing  you  coming. 

Oth.  I  do  believe  'twas  he. 

Des.  How  now,  my  lord  ? 
'.  have  been  talking  with  a  suitor  here, 
\.  man  that  languishes  in  your  displeasure. 

Oth.  Who  is't  you  mean  ? 

Des.  Why,  your  lieutenant  Cassio.     Good  my  lord 
f  I  have  any  grace,  or  power  to  move  you, 
iis  present  reconciliation  take  ; 
?or,  if  he  be  not  one  that  truly  loves  you, 
Phat  errs  in  ignorance,  and  not  in  cunning, 
'.  have  no  judgment  in  an  honest  face : 
'.  pr'ythee,  call  him  back. 

Oth.  Went  he  hence  now  ? 

Des.  Ay,  sooth  ;  so  humbled, 
Chat  he  hath  left  part  of  his  grief  with  me  ; 
.  suffer  with  him.     Good  love,  call  him  back. 

Oth.  Not  now,  sweet  Desdemona  ;  some  other  time. 

Des.  But  shall't  be  shortly  ? 

Oth.  The  sooner,  sweet,  for  you, 

Des.  Shall't  be  to-night  at  supper  ? 

Oth.  No,  not  to-night. 

Des.  To-morrow  dinner  then  ? 

Oth.  I  shall  not  dine  at  home ; 

[  meet  the  captains  at  the  citadel. 

Des.  Why  then,  to-morrow  night ;  or  Tuesday  morn  ; 
3r  Tuesday  noon,  or  night ;  or  Wednesday  morn  ; — 
[  pray  thee,  name  the  time  ;  but  let  it  not 
Exceed  three  days  :  in  faith,  he's  penitent. 
When  shall  he  come  ? 
roll  me,  Othello.     I  wonder  in  my  soul, 
What  you  could  ask  me,  that  I  should  deny, 


SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Or  stand  so  mammering  0:1.     \Vhat !  Michael  Cassio, 
That  came  a  wooing  with  you  ;  and  many  a  time, 
When  I  have  spoke  of  you  dispraisingly, 
Hath  ta'en  your  part ;  to  have  so  much  to  do 
To  bring  him  in  !     Trust  me,  I  could  do  much. — 

Oth.  1  will  deny  thee  nothing : 
Whereon,  I  do  beseech  thee,  grant  me  this, 
To  leave  me  but  a  little  to  myself. 

Des.  Shall  I  deny  you  ?  no  ;  Farewell,  my  lord. 

Oth.  Farewell,  my  Desdemona  :  I  will  come  to  thee  straight. 

Des.  Emilia,  come  : — Be  it  as  your  fancies  teach  you ; 
Whate'er  you  be,  I  am  obedient.  [Exit,  with  EMILIA 

lago.  My  noble  lord, 

Oth.  What  dost  thou  say,  lago  ? 

lago.  Did  Michael  Cassio,  when  you  woo'd  my  lady. 
Know  of  your  love  ? 

Oth.  He  did,  from  first  to  last :  Why  dost  thou  ask  ? 

lago.  But  for  a  satisfaction  of  my  thought ; 
No  further  harm. 

Oth.  Why  of  thy  thought,  lago  ? 

lago.  I  did  not  think,  he  had  been  acquainted  with  her. 

Oth.  O,  yes ;  and  went  between  us  very  oft. 


lago.  Indeed  ? 
Oth.  ] 


Indeed  !  ay,  indeed  : — Discern'st  thou  aught  in  that  ? 
Is  he  not  honest  ? 

lago.  Honest,  my  lord  ? 

Oth.  Ay,  honest* 

lago.  My  lord,  for  aught  I  know. 

Oth.  What  dost  thou  think  ? 

lago.  Think,  my  lord  ? 

Oth.  Think,  my  lord ! 

By  heaven,  he  echoes  me, 
As  if  there  were  some  monster  in  his  thought 
Too  hideous  to  be  shown. — Thou  dost  mean  something : 
I  heard  thee  say  but  now, — Thou  lik'dst  not  that, 
When  Cassio  left  my  wife  ;  What  did'st  not  like  ? 
And,  when  I  told  thee, — he  was  of  my  counsel 
In  my  whole  course  of  wooing,  thou  cry'dst,  Indeed? 
And  did'st  contract  and  purse  thy  brow  together, 
As  if  thou  then  had'st  shut  up  in  thy  brain 
Some  horrible  conceit :  If  thou  dost  love  me, 
Show  me  thy  thought. 

lago.  My  lord,  you  know  I  love  you. 

Oth.  I  think  thou  dost ; 

And, — for  I  know  thou  art  full  of  love  and  honesty, 
And  weigh'st  thy  words  before  thou  giv'st  them  breath. 
Therefore  these  stops  of  thine  fright  me  the  more  : 
For  such  things  in  a  false  disloyal  knave, 
Are  tricks  of  custom  •  but,  in  a  man  that's  just. 


OTHELLO.  163 

They  are  close  denotements,  working  from  the  hoart, 
That  passion  cannot  rule. 

lago.  For  Michael  Cassio, — 

I  dare  be  sworn,  I  think  that  he  is  honest. 

Oth.  I  think  so  too. 

lago.  Men  should  be  what  they  seem ; 

Or,  those  that  be  not,  'would  they  might  seem  none  ! 

Oth.  Certain,  men  should  be  what  they  seem. 

lago.  Why  then, 

I  think,  that  Cassio  is  an  honest  man. 

Oth.  Nay,  yet  there's  more  in  this  : 
I  pray  thee,  speak  to  me  as  to  thy  thinkings, 
As  thou  dost  ruminate  ;  and  give  thy  worst  of  thoughts 
The  worst  of  words. 

lago.  Good  my  lord,  pardon  me  ; 

Though  I  am  bound  to  every  act  of  duty, 
I  am  not  bound  to  that  all  slaves  are  free  to. 
Utter  my  thoughts  ?     Why,  say,  they  are  vile  and  false, 
As  where's  that  palace,  whereunto  foul  things 
Sometimes  intrude  not  ?  who  has  a  breast  so  pure., 
But  some  uncleanly  apprehensions 
Keep  leets,  and  law-days,  and  in  session  sit 
With  meditations  lawful  ? 

Oth.  Thou  dost  conspire  against  thy  friend,  lago, 
If  thou  but  think'st  him  wrong'd,  and  mak'st  his  ear 
A  stranger  to  thy  thoughts. 

lago.  I  do  beseech  you, — 

Though  I,  perchance,  am  vicious  in  my  guess. 
As,  I  confess,  it  is  my  nature's  plague 
To  spy  into  abuses  ;  and,  oft  my  jealousy 
Shapes  faults  that  are  not, — I  entreat  you  then, 
From  one  that  so  imperfectly  conjects, 
You'd  take  no  notice  ;  nor  build  yourself  a  trouble 
Out  of  his  scattering  and  unsure  observance : — 
It  were  not  for  your  quiet,  nor  your  good, 
Nor  for  my  manhood,  honesty,  or  wisdom, 
To  let  you  know  my  thoughts. 

Oth.  What  dost  thou  mean  ? 

lago.  Good  name,  in  man,  and  woman,  dear  my  lord, 
Is  the  immediate  jewel  of  their  souls  : 
Who  steals  my  purse,  steals  trash  ;  'tis  something,  nothirgs 
'Twas  mine,  'tis  his,  and  has  been  slave  to  thousands ; 
But  he  that  niches  from  me  my  good  name, 
Robs  me  of  that,  which  not  enriches  him, 
And  makes  me  poor  indeed. 

Oth.  By  heaven,  Til  know  thy  thought. 

lago.  You  cannot,  if  my  heart  were  in  your  hand : 
Nor  shall  not,  while  'tis  in  my  custod? 

Oth.  Ha ' 


164  SHAKSPEARIAN   READER. 

lago   O,  beware,  my  lord,  of  jealousy 
It  is  the  green-e^'d  monster,  which  doth  mock 
The  meat  it  feeds  on. 

Oik.  O  misery ! 

lago.  Poor,  and  content,  is  rich,  and  rich  enougn ; 
But  riches,  fineless,  is  as  poor  as  winter, 
To  him  that  ever  fears  he  shall  be  poor  : — 
Good  heaven,  the  souls  of  all  my  tribe  defend 
From  jealousy ! 

Oik.  Why!  why  is  this? 

Think'st  thou,  I'd  make  a  life  of  jealousy, 
To  follow  still  the  changes  of  the  moon 
With  fresh  suspicions  ?  No :  to  be  once  in  doubt, 
Is — once  to  be  resolv'd  : 
*Tis  not  to  make  me  jealous, 
To  say — my  wife  is  fair,  feeds  well,  loves  companyj 
Is  free  of  speech,  sings,  plays,  and  dances  well : 
Where  virtue  is,  these  are  more  virtuous : 
Nor  from  mine  own  weak  merits  will  I  draw 
The  smallest  fear,  or  doubt  of  her  revolt ; 
For  she  had  eyes,  and  chose  me :  No,  lago ; 
I'll  see,  before  I  doubt ;  when  I  doubt,  prove ; 
And,  on  the  proof,  there  is  no  more  but  this, — 
Away  at  once  with  love,  or  jealousy. 

lago.  I  am  glad  of  this ;  for  now  I  shall  have  reason 
To  show  the  love  and  duty  that  I  bear  you 
With  franker  spirit :  therefore,  as  I  am  bound, 
Receive  it  from  me  : — I  speak  not  yet  of  proof. 
Look  to  your  wife  ;  observe  her  well  with  Cassio : 
Wear  your  eye — thus,  not  jealous,  nor  secure : 
I  would  not  have  your  free  and  noble  nature, 
Out  of  self-bounty,  be  abus'd  ;  look  to't : 
She  did  deceive  her  father,  marrying  you  ; 
And,  when  she  seem'd  to  shake,  and  fear  your  looks, 
She  lov'd  them  most. 

Oth.  And  so  she  did. 

lago.  Why,  go  to,  then ', 

She  that  so  young,  could  give  out  such  a  seeming, 
To  seal  her  father's  eyes  up,  close  as  oak, 
He  thought,  'twas  witchcraft : — But  I  am  much  to  blame  ; 
I  humbly  do  beseech  you  of  your  pardon, 
For  too  much  loving  you. 

Oth.  I  am  bound  to  then  for  ever 

lago.  I  see,  this  hath  a  little  dash'd  your  spirits. 

Oth.  Not  a  jot,  not  a  jot. 

lago.  Trust  me,  I  fear  it  4ias. 

1  hope,  you  will  consider,  what  is  spoke 
Comes  from  my  love  : — But,  I  do  see  you  are  mov'd  : — 
I  am  to  pray  you,  not  to  strain  my  speech 


OTHELLO.  165 

JTo  grosser  issues,  nor  to  larger  reach, 
Than  to  suspicion. 

Oth.  I  will  not. 

lago.  Should  you  do  so,  my  lord, 

My  speech  should  fall  into  such  vile  success 
As  my  thoughts  aim  not  at.     Cassio's  my  worthy  friend  :— 
My  lord,  I  see  you  are  mov'd. 

Olh.  No,  not  much  mov'd  : — 

I  do  not  think  but  Desdemona's  honest. 

lago.  Long  live  she  so  !  and  long  live  you  to  think  so  ! 

Oth.  And  yet,  how  nature  erring  from  itself, — 

lago.  Ay,  there's  the  point : — As, — to  be  bold  with  you, — 
Not  to  affect  many  proposed  matches, 
Of  her  own  clime,  complexion,  and  degree ; 
Whereto,  we  see,  in  all  things  nature  tends  : 
Foh  !  one  may  smell,  in  such,  a  will  most  rank, 
Foul  disproportion,  thoughts  unnatural. — 
But,  pardon  me  ;  I  do  not  in  position, 
Distinctly  speak  of  her :  though  I  may  fear, 
Her  will,  recoiling  to  her  better  judgment, 
May  fall  to  match  you  with  her  country  forms, 
And  (happily)  repent. 

Oth.  Farewell,  farewell : 

tf  more  thou  dost  perceive,  let  me  know  more  ; 
Set  on  thy  wife  to  observe  :  Leave  me,  lago. 

lago.  My  lord,  I  take  my  leave.  [Got fig, 

Oth.  Why  did  I  marry  ? — This  honest  creature,  doubtless, 
Sees  and  knows  more,  much  more,  than  he  unfolds. 

lago.  My  lord,  I  would,  I  might  entreat  your  honor 
To  scan  this  thing  no  further ;  leave  it  to  time  : 
And  though  it  be  fit  that  Cassio  have  his  place, 
(For,  sure,  he  fills  it  up  with  great  ability,) 
Yet,  if  you  please  to  hold  him  off  awhile, 
You  shall  by  that  perceive  him  and  his  means  : 
Note,  if  your  lady  strain  his  entertainment 
With  any  strong  or  vehement  importunity  ; 
Much  will  be  seen  in  that.     In  the  meantime. 
Let  me  be  thought  too  busy  in  my  fears, 
(As  worthy  cause  I  have,  to  fear — I  am,) 
And  hold  her  free,  I  do  beseech  your  honor. 

Oth.  Fear  not  my  government. 

lago.  I  once  more  take  my  leave.  [En  it. 

Oth.  This  fellow's  of  exceeding  honesty, 
And  knows  all  qualities,  with  a  learned  spirit,  • 

Of  human  dealings  :  If  I  do  prove  her  haggard, 
Though  that  her  jesses  were  my  dear  heart-strings, 
I'd  whistle  her  off,  and  let  her  down  the  wind, 
To  prey  at  fortune.     Haply,  for  I  am  black ; 
And  have  not  those  soft  parts  of  conversation 


166  SHAKSPEARIAN   READER. 

That  chamberers  have :  Or,  for  I  am  declin'd 
Into  the  vale  of  years  ; — yet  that's  not  much  ; — 
She's  gone  ;  I  am  abus'd  ;  and  my  relief 
Must  be — to  loath  her.     Desdemona  comes. 

Enter  DESDEMONA,  and  EMILIA. 

If  she  be  false,  O,  then  heaven  mocks  itself ! — 
I'll  not  believe  it. 

Des.  How  now,  my  dear  Othello  ? 

Your  dinner,  and  the  generous  islanders 
By  you  invited,  do  attend  your  presence. 

Oth.  I  am  to  blame. 

Des.  Why  is  your  speech  so  faint  ?  are  you  not  well  ? 

Oih.  I  have  a  pain  upon  my  forehead  here. 

Des.  Faith,  that's  with  watching  ;  "twill  away  again  : 
Let  me  but  bind  it  hard,  within  this  hour 
It  will  be  well. 

Oth.  Your  napkin  is  too  little  ; 

[He  puts  the  handkerchief  from  him,  and  it  drops 
Let  it  alone.     Come,  I'll  go  in  with  you. 

Des.  I  am  very  sorry  that  you  are  not  well. 

[Exeunt  OTH.  and  DES 

EmiL  I  am  glad  I  have  found  this  napkin  ; 
This  was  her  first  remembrance  from  the  Moor : 
My  wayward  husband  hath  a  hundred  times 
Woo'd  me  to  steal  it :  but  she  so  loves  the  token, 
(For  he  conjur'd  her,  she  would  ever  keep  it,) 
That  she  reserves  it  evermore  about  her, 
To  kiss,  and  talk  to.     I'll  have  the  work  ta'en  out, 
And  give  it  lago ; 

What  he'll  do  with  it,  heaven  knows,  not  I ; 
I  nothing,  but  to  please  his  fantasy. 

Enter  IAGO. 

lago.  How  now  !  what  do  you  here  alone  ? 

EmiL  Do  not  you  chide  ;  I  have  a  thing  for  you. 

lago.  A  thing  for  me  ? — it  is  a  common  thing. 

EmiL  Ha! 

lago.  To  have  a  foolish  wife. 

•EmiL  O,  is  that  all  ?  What  will  you  give  me  now 
For  that  same  handkerchief  ? 

lago.  What  handkerchief  ? 

EmiL  What  handkerchief  ? 
Why,  that  the  Moor  first  gave  to  Desdemona ; 
That  which  so  often  you  did  bid  me  steal. 

lago.  Hast  stolen  it  from  her  ? 

EmiL  No,  faith  ;  she  let  it  drop  by  negligence; 
A.nd,  to  the  advantage,  I,  being  here,  took  't  up. 
Look,  here  it  is. 


OTHELLO.  167 

lago.  Give  it  me. 

Emil  What  will  you  do  with  it,  that  you  have  been  so  earnest 

»  have  me  filch  it  ? 

lago.  Why,  what's  that  to  you  ?  [Snatching  it. 

Emil.  If  it  be  not  for  some  purpose  of  import, 
Jive  it  me  again :  Poor  lady  !  she'll  run  mad, 
Vhen  she  shall  lack  it. 

lago.  Be  not  you  known  oft ;  I  have  use  for  it. 
3o,  leave  me.  Exit  EMILIA. 

will  in  Cassio's  lodging  lose  this  napkin, 
Ind  let  him  find  it :  Trifles,  light  as  air, 
Ire,  to  the  jealous,  confirmations  strong 
proofs  of  holy  writ. 

Enter  OTHELLO. 


,  where  he  comes  !  Not  poppy,  nor  mandragora, 
all  the  drowsy  syrups  of  the  world,  ^ 
Shall  ever  medicine  thee  to  that  sweet  sleep 

hich  thou  ow'dst  yesterday. 

Oth.  Ha !  ha  !  false  to  me  ? 

Tome? 

lago.  Why,  how  now,  general  ?  no  more  of  that  1 

Oth.  Avaunt !  begone  !  thou  hast  set  me  on  the  rack. 

lago.  I  am  sorry  to  hear  this. 

Oth.  O  now,  for  ever, 

Tarewell  the  tranquil  mind  !  farewell  content ! 
farewell  the  plumed  troop,  and  the  big  wars, 
That  make  ambition  virtue  !  O,  farewell ! 
farewell  the  neighing  steed,  and  the  shrill  trump, 
The  spirit-stirring  drum,  the  ear-piercing  fife, 
The  royal  banner,  and  all  quality, 
Pride,  pomp,  and  circumstance,  of  glorious  war  ! 
And  O  you  mortal  engines,  whose  rude  throats 
The  immortal  Jove's  dread  clamors  counterfeit, 
Farewell !  Othello's  occupation's  gone  ! 

lago.  Have  you  not  sometimes  seen  a  handkerchief, 
Spotted  with  strawberries,  in  your  wife's  hand  ? 

Oth.  I  gave  her  such  a  one  ;  'twas  my  first  gift. 

lago.  I  know  not  that :  but  such  a  handkerchief, 
(I  am  sure  it  was  your  wife's,)  did  I  to-day 
See  Cassio  wipe  his  beard  with. 

Oth.  If  it  be  that,— 

lago.  If  it  be  that,  or  any  that  was  hers, 
It  speaks  against  her,  with  the  other  proofs. 

Oth.  O,  that  the  slave  had  forty  thousand  lives : 
One  is  too  poor,  too  weak  for  my  revenge  ! 
Now  do  I  see  'tis  true. — Look  here,  lago ; 
All  my  fond  love  thus  I  do  blow  to  heaven  : 
*Tis  gone. — 


163  SHAKSPEARIAN   READER. 

Arise,  black  vengeance,  from  thy  hollow  cell ! 
Yield  up,  O  love,  thy/ crown,  and  hearted  throne, 
To  tyrannous  hate  !  swell,  bosom,  with  thy  fraught, 
For  'tis  of  aspicks'  tongues  ! 

lago.  Pray,  be  content. 

Oth.  O,  blood,  lago,  blood  ! 

lago.  Patience,  I  say ;  your  mind,  perhaps,  may  change, 

Oth.  Never,  lago.     Like  to  the  Pontic  sea, 
Whose  icy  current  and  compulsive  course 
Ne'er  feels  retiring  ebb,  but  keeps  due  on 
To  the  Propontick  and  the  Hellespont ; 
Even  so  my  bloody  thoughts,  with  violent  pace, 
Shall  ne'er  look  back,  ne'er  ebb  to  humble  love, 
Till  that  a  capable  and  wide  revenge 

Swallow  them  up. — Now,  by  yond'  marble  heaven,  [Kneels 

In  the  due  reverence  of  a  sacred  vow 
I  here  engage  my  words. 

lago.  Do  not  rise  yet. —  [Kneels. 

Witness,  you  ever-burning  lights  above  ! 
You  elements  that  clip  us  round  about ! 
Witness,  that  here  lago  doth  give  up 
The  execution  of  his  wit,  hands,  heart, 
To  wrong'd  Othello's  service  !  let  him  command, 
And  to  obey  shall  be  in  me  remorse, 
What  bloouy  work  soever. 

Oth.  I  greet  thy  love, 

Not  with  vain  thanks,  but  with  acceptance  bounteous, 
And  will  upon  the  instant  put  thee  to't : 
Within  these  three  days  let  me  hear  thee  say, 
That  Cassio's  not  alive. 

lago.  My  friend  is  dead  ;  'tis  done,  at  your  request : 
But  let  her  live.  \Exeunt, 

SCENE  IV.—The  same. 
Enter  DESDEMONA,  and  EMILIA. 

Des.  Where  should  I  lose  that  handkerchief,  Emilia  ? 

Emil.  I  know  not,  madam. 

Des.  Believe  me  : — And,  but  my  noble  Moor 
Is  true  of  mind,  and  made  of  no  such  baseness 
As  jealous  creatures  are,  it  were  enough 
To  put  him  to  ill  thinking. 

Emil.  Is  he  not  jealous  ? 

Des.  Who,  he  ?  I  think,  the  sun,  where  he  was  born, 
Drew  all  such  humors  from  him. 

Emil.  Look,  where  he  comes. 

Des.  I  will  not  leave  him  now.  till  Cassio 
Be  call'd  to  him. — How  is't  with  you,  my  lord  ? 


OTHELLO.  169 


Enter  OTHELLO. 

Oth.  Well,  my  good  lady ; — [Aside.] — O,  hardness  to  dissemble  I—- 
How do  you,  Desdemona  ? 

Des.  Well,  my  good  lord 

Oth.  Give  me  your  hand  :  "Fis  a  good  hand, 
A  frank  one. 

Des.  You  may,  indeed,  say  so ; 
For  'twas  that  hand  that  gave  away  my  heart. 

Oth.  A  liberal  hand :  The  hearts,  of  old,  gave  hands  : 
But  our  new  heraldry  is — hands,  not  hearts. 

Des.  I  cannot  speak  of  this.     Come  now  your  promise. 

Oth.  What  promise,  chuck  ? 

Des.  I  have  sent  to  bid  Cassio  come  speak  with  you. 

Oth.  I  have  a  salt  and  sullen  rheum  offends  me ; 
Lend  me  thy  handkerchief. 

Des.  Here,  my  lord. 

Oth.  That  which  I  gave  you. 

Des.  I  have  it  not  about  me. 

Oth.  Not? 

Des.  No,  indeed,  my  lord. 

Oth.  That  is  a  fault. 

That  handkerchief 
Did  an  Egyptian  to  my  mother  give  ; 
She  was  a  charmer,  and  could  almost  read 
The  thoughts  of  people  :  she  told  her,  while  she  kept  it, 
'Twould  make  her  amiable,  and  subdue  my  father 
Entirely  to  her  love  ;  but  if  she  lost  it, 
Or  made  a  gift  of  it,  my  father's  eye 
Should  hold  her  loathly,  and  his  spirits  should  hunt 
After  new  fancies :  She,  dying,  gave  it  me  ; 
And  bid  me,  when  my  fate  would  have  me  wive, 
To  give  it  her.     T  did  so  :  and  take  heed  oft, 
Make  it  a  darling  like  your  precious  eye ; 
To  lose  or  give't  away,  were  such  perdition, 
As  nothing  else  could  match. 

Des.  Is  it  possible  ? 

Oth.  'Tis  true  ;  There's  magic  in  the  web  of  it 
A  sibyl,  that  had  number'd  in  the  world 
The  sun  to  make  two  hundred  compasses, 
In  her  prophetic  fury  sew'd  the  work : 
The  worms  were  hallow'd  that  did  breed  the  silk , 
And  it  was  dy'd  in  mummy,  which  the  skilful 
Conserv'd  of  maidens'  hearts. 

Des.  Indeed!  is't  true  ? 

Oth.  Most  veritable ;  therefore  look  to't  well. 

Des.  Then  would  to  heaven,  that  I  had  never  seen  ft. 

Oth.  Ha  !  wherefore  ? 

Des.  Why  do  you  speak  so  startingly  and  rash  ? 

9 


170  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Oth.  Is't  lost  ?  is't  gone  ?  speak,  is  it  out  of  the  way  ? 

Des.  Heaven  bless  us  ! 

Oth.  Say  you  ? 

Des.  It  is  not  lost ;  But  what  and  if  it  were  ? 

Oth.  Ha! 

Des.  I  say,  it  is  not  lost. 

Oth.  Fetch't,  let  me  see  it. 

Des.  Why,  so  I  car,  sir,  but  I  will  not  now ; 
This  is  a  trick,  to  put  me  from  my  suit ; 
I  pray,  let  Cassio  be  receiv'd  again. 

Oth.  Fetch  me  that  handkerchief:  my  mind  misgives. 

Des.  Come,  come ; 
You'll  never  meet  a  more  sufficient  man. 

Oth.  The  handkerchief, 

Des.  I  pray,  talk  me  of  CassiO. 

Oth.  The  handkerchief, 

Des.  A  man  that,  all  his  time, 

Hath  founded  his  good  fortune  on  your  love, 
Shar'd  dangers  with  you ; 

Oth.  The  handkerchief, 

Des.  In  sooth, 
You  are  to  blame. 

Oth.  Away !  [Exit  OTHELLO 

Emil.  Is  not  this  man  jealous  ? 

Des.  I  ne'er  saw  this  before. 
Sure,  there's  some  wonder  in  this  handkerchief: 
I  am  most  unnappy  in  the  loss  of  it. 

Emil.  'Tis  not  a  year  or  two  shows  us  a  man  : 
Look  you  !  Cassio  and  my  husband. 

Enter  IAGO,  and  CASSIO. 

logo.  There  is  no  other  way  ;  'tis  she  must  do't , 
And,  lo,  the  happiness  !  go,  and  importune  her. 

Des.  How  now,  good  Cassio  ?  what's  the  news  with  you  ? 

Cas.  Madam,  my  former  suit :  I  do  beseech  you, 
That,  by  your  virtuous  means,  I  may  again 
Exist,  and  be  a  member  of  his  love. 

Des.  Alas  !  thrice-gentfe  Cassia^ 

My  advocation  is  not  now  in  tune  ; 
My  lord  is  not  my  lord  ;  nor  should  I  know  him, 
Were  he  in  favor,  as  in  humor,  alter'd. 
So  help  me,  every  spirit  sanctified, 
As  I  have  spoken  for  you  all  my  best, 
And  stood  within  the  blank  of  his  displeasure, 
For  my  free  speech  !  You  must  a  while  be  patient : 
What  I  can  do,  I  will ;  and  more  I  will, 
Than  for  myself  I  dare :  let  that  suffice  you. 

logo.  Is  my  lord  angry  ? 


OTHELLO.  171 

EmiL  He  went  hence  but  now, 

And,  certainly,  in  strange  unquietness. 

lago.  Can  he  be  angry  ? 

Something  of  moment,  then :  I  will  go  meet  him : 
There's  matter  in't  indeed,  if  he  be  angry. 

Des.  I  pr'ythee  do  so. — Something,  sure,  of  state, —    [Exit  IAGO 
Either  from  Venice  ;  or  some  unhatch'd  practice, 
Made  demonstrable  here  in  Cyprus  to  him, — 
Hath  puddled  his  clear  spirit :  and,  in  such  cases, 
Men's  natures  wrangle  with  inferior  things, 
Though  great  ones  are  their  object. 
Nay,  we  must  think,  men  are  not  gods ; 
Nor  of  them  look  for  such  observances 
As  fit  the  bridal. 

EmiL  Pray  heaven,  it  be  state  matters,  as  you  think, 
And  no  conception,  nor  no  jealous  toy, 
Concerning  you. 

Des.  Alas,  the  day !  I  never  gave  him  cause. 

EmiL  But  jealous  souls  will  not  be  answer'd  so  ; 
They  are  not  ever  jealous  for  the  cause, 
But  jealous  for  they  are  jealous. 

Des.  I  will  go  seek  Othello. — Cassio,  walk  hereabout : 
If  I  do  find  him  fit,  I'll  move  your  suit, 
And  seek  to  affect  it  to  my  uttermost. 

Gas.  I  humbly  thank  your  ladyship. 

[Exeunt  DESDEMONA,  and  EMILIA. 

The  catastrophe  of  this  noble  domestic  tragedy,  is  foreshadowed  in  our  extracts. 
Othello,  convinced  of  his  wife's  dishonor,  is  instigal  »d  by  rage  and  jealousy  to  take  he? 
Jfe.  But  the  innocence  of  Desdemona  is  proved  b  '  »h"  confession  of  Emilia,  and  the 
discovery  of  lago's  treachery.  Othello,  overwhelmeit  with  nri*f  and  remorse  destroys 
btmsdf,  an  1  lago  is  delivered  a  prisoner  into  the  hand*  of  iuttioe. 


THE  TEMPEST. 


The  TEMPEST  is  supposed  to  be  the  last  production  of  Shakspeare's  mighty  geniut } 
as  it  is  generally  acknowledged  to  be  the  most  original  and  perfect  of  his  works.  In  thii 
Play  the  Poet  has  literally  "  given  to  airy  nothings  a  local  habitation  and  a  name,"  en- 
dowing them  with  qualities  and  furnishing  them  with  a  fitness  of  language,  which  invesli 
these  creatures  of  his  imaginings  with  all  the  charm  and  semblance  of  reality. 

The  story  is  simple  in  its  construction,  yet  it  is  deeply  interesting.  Our  selections  pt» 
•ent  the  main  incidents  of  the  plot  in  consecutive  succession. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 

ALONZO,  King  of  Naples. 
SEBASTIAN,  his  brother. 
PROSPERO,  the  rightful  Duke  of  Milan. 
ANTONIO,  his  brother,  the  usurping  Duke  of  Milan. 
FERDINAND,  son  to  the  King  of  Naples. 
GONZALO,  an  honest  old  counsellor  of  Naples. 
ADRIAN,  FRANCISCO,  lords. 
CALIBAN,  a  savage  and  deformed  slave. 
TRINCULO,  a  jester. 
STEPHANO,  a  drunken  butler. 
Master  of  a  ship,  Boatswain,  and  Mariners. 
MIRANDA,  daughter  to  Prospero. 
ARIEL,  an  airy  spirit. 

IRIS,  CERES,  JUNO,  Nymphs,  Reapers,  spirits. 
Other  spirits  attending  on  Prospero. 

ACT  I. 

SCENE. — The  Sea,  with  a  Ship  ;  afterwards  an  uninhabned  Island, 

Prospero,  the  rightful  Duke  of  Milan,  has  been  dethroned  by  his  brother  Antonio, 
«nd  banished  from  his  dominions.  Prospero  seeks  refuge  in  a  desert  island,  with  hit 
daughter  Miranda,  and  by  magic  arts,  surrounds  himself  with  "  potent  spirits,"  which 


THE    TEMPEST.  173 

tre  obedient  to  his  wul.  Having  learned  by  his  "  magic  "  that  his  brother  Antonio  has 
embarked  in  a  vessel  for  Naples,  in  company  with  Alonzo,  King  of  Naples,  the  king'i 
son,  Ferdinand,  together  with  certain  lords  of  Milan  and  Naples,  Prospero  commands  his 
trusty  spirit  Ariel,  to  wreck* the  vessel  near  the  island,  but  to  save  the  lives  of  the  noble 
passengers  and  crew,  and  bring  them  safely  to  shore.  Prospero  and  his  daughter  Miranda 
witness  the  destruction  of  the  vessel, 

SCENE  II.— The  Island:  before  the  Cell  of  PROSPERO. 
Enter  PROSPERO,  and  MIRANDA. 

Mira.  If  by  your  art,  my  dearest  father,  you  have 
Put  the  wild  waters  in  this  roar,  allay  them  : 
The  sky,  it  seems,  would  pour  down  stinking  pitch, 
But  that  the  sea,  mounting  to  the  welkin's  cheefc, 
Dashes  the  fire  out.     O,  I  have  suffer'd 
With  those  that  I  saw  suffer !  a  brave  vessel, 
Who  had  no  doubt  some 'noble  creatures  in  her, 
Dash'd  all  to  pieces.     O,  the  cry  did  knock 
Against  my  very  heart !     Poor  souls  !  they  perish'd. 
Had  I  been  any  god  of  power,  I  would 
Have  sunk  the  sea  within  the  earth,  or  e'er 
It  should  the  good  ship  so  have  swallowed,  and 
The  freighting  souls  within  her. 

Pro.  Be  collected ; 

No  more  amazement :  tell  your  piteous  heart, 
There's  no  harm  done. 

Mira.  O,  woe  the  day  ! 

Pro.  No  harm. 

I  have  done  nothing  but  in  care  of  thee, 
(Of  thee,  my  dear  one  !  thee,  my  daughter  !)  who 
Art  ignorant  of  what  thou  art,  nought  knowing 
Of  whence  I  am  ;  nor  that  I  am  more  better 
Than  Prospero,  master  of  a  full  poor  cell, 
And  thy  no  greater  father. 

Mira.  More  to  know 

Did  never  meddle  with  my  thoughts. 

Pro.  'Tis  time 

I  should  inform  thee  further.     Lend  thy  hand, 
And  pluck  my  magic  garment  from  me. — So ;  [Lays  down  his  mantle 
Lie  there  my  art. — Wipe  thou  thine  eyes  ;  have  comfort. 
The  direful'spectacle  of  the  wreck,  which  touch'd 
The  very  virtue  of  compassion  in  thee, 
I  have  with  such  provision  in  mine  art 
So  safely  order'd,  that  there  is  no  soul — 
No,  not  so  much  perdition  as  a  hair, 
Betid  to  any  creature  in  the  vessel 

Which  thou  heard'st  cry,  which  thou  saw'st  sink. — Sit  down  ; 
For  thou  must  now  know  further. 

Mira.  You  have  often 

Begun  to  tell  me  what  I  am  ;  but  stopp'd 


174  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

And  left  me  to  a  bootless    inquisition  ; 
Concluding,  Stay,  not  yet. — 

Pro.  The  hour's  now  come ; 

The  very  minute  bids  thee  ope  thine  ear  ; 
Obey,  and  be  attentive.     Can'st  thou  remember 
A  time  before  we  came  unto  this  cell  ? 
I  do  not  think  thou  can'st ;  for  then  thou  wast  not        , 
Out  three  years  old. 

Mira.  Certainly,  sir,  I  can. 

Pro.  By  what  ?  by  any  other  house,  or  person  ? 
Of  any  thing  the  image  tell  me,  that 
Hath  kept  with  thy  remembrance. 

Mira.  'Tis  far  off: 

And  rather  like  a  dream  than  an  assurance 
That  my  remembrance  warrants  :  Had  I  not 
Four  or  five  women  once,  that  tended  me  ? 

Pro.  Thou  had'st,  and  more,  Miranda :  But  how  is  it, 
That  this  lives  in  thy  mind  ?     What  seest  thou  else 
In  the  dark  backward  and  abysm  of  time  ? 
If  thou  remember'st  aught,  ere  thou  cam'st  here, 
How  thou  cam'st  here,  thou  may'st. 

Mira.  But  that  I  do  not. 

Pro.  Twelve  years  since,  Miranda,  twelve  years  since 
Thy  father  was  the  duke  of  Milan,  and 
A  prince  of  power. 

Mira.  Sir,  are  not  you  my  father  ? 

Pro.  Thy  mother  was  a  piece  of  virtue,  and 
She  said — thou  wast  my  daughter ;  and  thy  father 
Was  duke  of  Milan ;  and  his  only  heir 
A  princess,  no  worse  issued. 

Mira.  O,  the  heavens  ! 

What  foul  play  had  we,  that  we  came  from  thence ; 
Or  blessed  was't,  we  did  ? 

Pro.  Beth,  both,  my  girl ; 

By  foul  play,  as  thou  say'st,  were  we  heav'd  thence  ; 
But  blessedly  holp  hither. 

Mira.  O,  -my  heart  bleeds 

To  think  o'  the  teen*  that  I  have  turn'd  you  to, 
Which  is  from  my  remembrance  !     Please  you,  further. 

Pro.  My  brother,  and  thy  uncle,  call'd  Antonio, — 
I  pray  thee,  mark  me, — that  a  brother  should 
Be  so  perfidious  ! — he  whom,  next  thyself, 
Of  all  the  world  I  lov'd.  and  to  him  put 
The  manage  of  my  state  ;  as,  at  that  time, 
Through  all  the  signories  it  was  tlie  first, 
And  Prospero  the  prime  duke  ;  being  so  reputed 
In  dignity,  and,  for  the  liberal  arts, 
Without  a  parallel :  those  being  all  my  study, 

*  Sorrow 


THF    TEMPEST.  175 

The  government  I  <!ast  upon  my  brother, 
And  to  my  state  grew  stranger,  being  transported, 
And  rapt  in  secret  studies.     Thy  false  uncle — 
Dost  thou  attend  me  ? 

Mira.  .  Sir,  most  needfully. 

Pro.  Being  once  perfected  how  to  grant  suits, 
How  to  deny  them ;  whom  to  advance,  and  whom 
To  trash*  for  over-topping  ;  new  created 
The  creatures  that  were  mine  ;  I  say,  or  chang'd  them 
Or  else  new  form'd  them  ;  having  both  the  key 
Of  officer  and  office,  set  all  hearts  i'  th'  state 
To  what  tune  pleas'd  his  ear  ;  that  now  he  was 
The  ivy,  which  had  hid  my  princely  trunk, 
And  suck'd  my  verdure  out  on't. — Thou  attend'st  not : 
I  pray  thee,  mark  me. 

Mira.  O  good  sir,  I  do. 

Pro.  I  thus  neglecting  worldly  ends,  all  dedicate 
To  closeness,  and  the  bettering  of  my  mind 
With  that,  which,  but  by  being  so  retired. 
O'er-priz'd  all  popular  rate,  in  my  false  brother 
Awak'd  an  evil  nature  :  and  my  trust, 
Like  a  good  parent,  did  beget  of  him 
A  falsehood,  in  its  contrary  as  great 
As  my  trust  was  :  which  had,  indeed,  no  limit, 
A  confidence  sans  bound.     He  being  thus  lorded, 
Not  only  with  what  my  revenue  yielded, 
But  what  my  power  might  else  exact, — like  one, 
Who  having,  unto  truth,  by  telling  of  it, 
Made  such  a  sinner  of  his  memory, 
To  credit  his  own  lie, — he  did  believe 
He  was  indeed  the  duke ;  out  of  the  substitution, 
And  executing  the  outward  face  of  royalty 
With  all  prerogative  : — Hence  his  ambitior. 
Growing, — Dost  thou  hear  ? 

Mira.  Your  tale,  sir,  would  cure  deafrieaa. 

Pro.  To  have  no  screen  between  this  part  he  play'd, 
And  him  he  play'd  it  for,  he  needs  will  be 
Absolute  Milan  :  Me,  poor  man  ! — my  library 
Was  dukedom  large  enough  ;  of  temporal  royalties 
He  thinks  me  now  incapable  :  confederates 
(So  dry  he  was  for  sway)  with  the  king  of  Naples, 
To  give  him  annual  tribute,  do  him  homage ; 
Subject  his  coronet  to  his  crown,  and  bend 
The  dukedom,  yet  unbow'd,  (alas,  poor  Milan  !) 
To  most  ignoble  stooping. 

Mira.  O  the  heavens  ! 

Pro.  Mark  his  condition,  and  the  event ;  then  tell  me 
If  this  might  be  a  brother. 

*  Cut  away. 


176  SHAKSPEAK1AN    READER. 

Mira.  I  should  sin 

To  think  but  nobly  of  my  grandmother. 

Pro.  Now  tho  cond  tion 

This  king  of  Naples,  being  an  enemy 
To  me  inveterate,  hearkens  my  brother's  suit ; 
Which  was.  that  he  in  lieu  o'  the  premises, — 
Of  homage,  and  I  know  not  how  much  tribute, 
Should  presently  extirpate  me  and  mine 
Out  of  the  dukedom  ;  and  confer  fair  Milan, 
With  all  the  honors,  on  my  brother  :  Whereon, 
A  treacherous  army  levied,  one  midnight 
Fated  to  the  purpose,  did  Antonio  open 
The  gates  of  Milan ;  and,  i'  the  dead  of  darkness. 
The  ministers  for  the  purpose  hurried  thence 
Me.  and  thy  crying  self. 

Mira.  Alack,  for  pity  ! 

I,  not  rememb'ring  how  I  cry'd  out  then, 
Will  cry  it  o'er  again :  it  is  a  hint, 
That  wrings  mine  eyes  to't. 

Pro.  Hear  a  little  farther, 

And  then  I'll  bring  thee  to  the  present  business 
Which  now's  upon  us  ;  without  the  which,  this  story 
Were  most  impertinent. 

Mira.  Wherefore  did  they  not 

That  hour  destroy  us  ? 

Pro.  Well  demanded,  girl ; 

My  tale  provokes  that  question.     Dear,  they  durst  not 
(So  dear  the  love  my  people  bore  me,)  nor  set 
A  mark  so  bloody  on  the  business  ;  but 
With  colors  fairer  painted  their  foul  ends. 
In  few,  they  hurried  us  aboard  a  bark ; 
Bore  us  some  leagues  to  sea ;  where  they  prepared 
A  rotten  carcase  of  a  boat,  not  rigg'd, 
Nor  tackle,  sail,  nor  rnast ;  the  very  rats 
Instinctively  had  quit  it :  there  they  hoist  us, 
To  cry  to  the  sea  that  roar'd  to  us  ;  to  sigh 
To  the  winds,  whose  pity,  sighing  back  again, 
Did  ue  but  loving  wrong. 

Mira.  Alack  !  what  trouble 

Was  I  then  to  you  ! 

Pro.  O  !  a  cherubim 

Thou  wasl   thou  didst  preserve  me  !     Thou  didst  smile, 
Infused  wLh  a  fortitude  from  heaven, — 
When  I  have  deck'd  the  sea  with  drops  full  salt ; 
Under  my  burden  groan'd  ;  which  rais'd  in  me 
An  undergoing  stomach,  to  bear  up 
Against  what  should  ensue. 

Mira.  How  came  we  ashore  ? 

Pro.  By  Providence  divire. 


THE    TEMPEST.  177 

Some  food  we  had,  and  some  fresh  water,  that 

A  noble  Neapolitan,  Gonzalo, 

Out  of  his  charity,  (who  being  then  appointed 

Master  of  this  design,)  did  give  us  ;  with 

Rich  garments,  linens,  stuffs,  and  necessaries, 

Which  since  have  steaded  much  ;  so,  of  his  gentleness, 

Knowing  I  lov'd  my  books,  he  furnish'd  me. 

From  my  own  library,  with  volumes  that 

I  prize  above  my  dukedom.' 

Mira.  'Would  I  might 

But  ever  see  that  man  ! 

Pro.  Now  I  arise  : — 

Sit  still,  and  hear  the  last  of  our  sea-sorrow. 
Here  in  this  island  we  arrived ;  and  here 
Have  1.  thy  schoolmaster,  made  thee  more  profit 
Than  other  princes  can,  that  have  more  time 
For  vainer  hours,  and  tutors  not  so  careful. 

Mira.  Heavens  thank  you  for't !     And  now,  I  pray  you,  sir, 
(For  still  'tis  beating  in  my  mind,)  your  reason 
For  raising  this  sea-storm  ? 

Pro.  Know  thus  far  forth. — 

By  accident  most  strange,  bountiful  fortune, 
Now,  my  dear  lady,  hath  mine  enemies 
Brought  to  this  shore  :  and  by  my  prescience 
I  find  my  zenith  doth  depend  upon 
A  most  auspicious  star ;  whose  influence 
If  now  I  court  not,  but  omit,  my  fortunes 
Will  ever  after  droop. — Here  cease  more  questions  ; 
Thou  art  inclin'd  to  sleep ;  'tis  a  good  dulness, 
And  give  it  way  ; — I  know  thou  can'st  not  choose. 

[MIRANDA  sleep* 

Come  away,  servant,  come  :  I  am  ready  now ; 
Approach,  my  Ariel ;  come. 

Enter  ARIEI, 

Ari.  All  hail,  great  master !  grave  sir,  hail !  I  come 
To  answer  thy  best  pleasure  ;  be't  to  fly, 
To  swim,  to  dive  into  the  fire,  to  ride 
On  the  curl'd  clouds  ;  to  thy  strong  bidding,  task 
Ariel  and  all  his  quality. 

Pro.  Hast  thou,  spirit, 

Perform'd  to  point  the  tempest  that  I  bade  thee  ? 

Ari.  To  every  article. 
I  boarded  the  king's  ship ;  now  on  the  beak, 
Now  in  the  waist,  the  deck,  in  every  cabin, 
1  flam'd  amazement :  Sometimes,  I'd  divide, 
And  burn  m  many  places  ;  on  the  top-mast, 
The  yards  and  bowsprit,  would  I  flame  distinctly, 
Then  meet,  and  join:  Jove's  lightnings,  the  precursors 


178  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

O'  the  dreadfu]  thunder-claps,  more  momentary 
And  sight-out-running  were  not :  The  fire,  and  cracka 
Of  sulphurous  roaring,  the  most  mighty  Neptune 
Seem'd  to  hesiege,  and  make  his  bold  waves  tremble, 
Yea,  his  dread  trident  shake. 

Pro.  My  brave  spirit ! 

Who  w&s  so  firm,  so  constant,  that  this  coil* 
Would  not  infect  his  reason  ? 
-  Ari.  Not  a  scml 

But  felt  a  fever  of  the  mad,  and  play'd 
Some  tricks  of  desperation  :  All,  but  mariners, 
Plung'd  in  the  foaming  brine,  and  quit  the  vessel, 
Then  all  a-fire  with  me.     The  king's  son,  Ferdinand, 
With  hair  up-staring,  (then  like  reeds,  not  hair,) 
Was  the  first  man  that  leap'd. 

Pro.  Why,  that's  my  spirit. 

But  was  not  this  nigh  shore  ? 

Ari.  Close  by,  my  master. 

Pro.  But  are  they,  Ariel,  safe  ? 

Ari.  Not  a  hair  perish'd , 

On  their  sustaining  garments  not  a  blemish, 
But  fresher  than  before  :  and,  as  thou  bad'st  me, 
in  troops  I  have  dispers'd  them  'bout  the  isle : 
The  king's  son  have  I  landed  by  himself; 
Whom  I  left  cooling  of  the  air  with  sighs, 
[n  an  odd  angle  of  the  isle,  and  sitting, 
His  arms  in  this  sad  knot. 

Pro.  Of  the  king's  ship, 

The  mariners,  say,  how  thou  hast  dispos'd, 
And  all  the  rest  o'  the  fleet  ? 

Ari.  Safely  in  harbor 

Is  the  king's  ship ;  in  the  deep  nook,  where  once 
Thou  call'dst  me  up  at  midnight  to  fetch  dew 
From  the  still-vex'd  Bermoothes,  there  she's  hid : 
The  mariners  all  under  hatches  stow'd  ; 
Whom,  with  a  charm  join'd  to  their  suffer'd  labor, 
I  have  left  asleep :  and  for  the  rest  o'  the  fleet, 
Which  I  dispers'd,  they  all  have  met  again ; 
And  are  upon  the  Mediterranean  flote,f 
Bound  sadly  home  for  Naples ; 
Supposing  that  they  saw  the  king's  ship  wreck'd, 
And  his  great  person  perish. 

Pro.  Ariel,  thy  charge 

Exactly  is  perform'd  ;  but  there's  more  work : 
What  is  the  time  o'  the  day  ? 

Ari.  Past  the  mid  season. 

Pro.  At  least  two  glasses  :  the  time  'twixt  six  and  now 
Must  by  us  both  be  spent  most  preciously. 

*  Bustle,  tumult  t  Wave. 


THE    TEB  PEST.  179 

Ari.  Is  there  more  toil '? — Since  thou  dost  give  me  pains, 
Let  me  remember  thee  what  thou  hast  promis'd, 
Whicf,  is  not  yet  perform'd  me. 

Pro.  How  now  ?  moody  ? 

What  is't  thou  can'st  demand  ? 

Ari.  My  liberty. 

Pro.  Before  the  time  be  out  ?  no  more. 

Ari.  I  pray  thee 

Remember,  I  have  done  thee  worthy  service ; 
Told  thee  no  lies,  made  no  mistakings,  serv'd 
Without  or  grudge,  or  grumblings  :  thou  didst  promise 
To  bate  me  a  full  year. 

Pro.  Dost  thou  forget 

From  what  a  torment  I  did  free  thee  ? 

Ari.  No. 

Pro.  Thou  dost ;  and  think'st 
It  much  to  tread  the  ooze  of  the  salt  deep ; 
To  run  upon  the  sharp  wind  of  the  north ; 
To  do  me  business  in  the  veins  o'  the  earth, 
When  it  is  bak'd  with  frost. 

Ari.  I  do  not,  sir. 

Pro.  Thou  liest,  malignant  thing  !  Hast  thou  forgot 
The  foul  witch  Sycorax,  who  with  age  and  envy, 
Was  grown  into  a  hoop  ?  hast  thou  forgot  her  ? 

Ari.  No,  sir. 

Pro.  Thou  hast :  Where  was  she  born  ?   speak  •  jel  me. 

Ari.  Sir,  in  Argier. 

Pro.  O,  was  she  so  ?  I  must, 

Once  in  a  month,  recount  what  thou  hast  been, 
Which  thou  forget'st.     This  vile  witch,  Sycorax, 
For  mischiefs  manifold,  and  sorceries  terrible 
To  enter  human  hearing,  from  Argier, 
Thou  know'st,  was  banish'd  ;  for  one  thing  she  '.lid, 
They  would  not  take  her  life  :  Is  not  this  true  ? 

Ari.  Ay,  sir. 

Pro.  This  blue-ey'd  hag  was  hither  brought, 
And  here  was  left  by  the  sailors  :  Thou,  my  slave, 
As  thou  report'st  thyself,  was  then  her  servant : 
And,  for  thou  wast  a  spirit  too  delicate 
To  act  her  earthy  and  abhorr'd  commands, 
Refusing  her  grand  hests,  she  did  confine  thee, 
By  help  of  her  more  potent  ministers, 
And  in  her  most  unmitigable  rage, 
Into  a  cloven  pine  ;  within  which  rift 
Imprison'd,  thou  did'st  painfully  remain 
A  dozen  years ;  within  which  space  she  died, 
And  left  thee  there  ;  where  thou  didst  vent  thy  groans, 
As  fast  as  mill-whee.s  strike  :  Then  was  this  island, 


180  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Saving  her  son,  not  honor'd  with 
A  human  shape. 

Ari.  Yes  ;  Caliban  her  son. 

Pro.  Dull  thing,  I  say  so  ;  he,  that  Caliban, 
Whom  now  I  keep  in  service.     Thou  best  know'st 
What  torment  I  did  find  thee  in  :  thy  groans 
Did  make  wolves  howl,  and  penetrate  the  breasts 
Of  ever-angry  bears.    This  Sycorax 
Could  not  again  undo  ;  it  was  mine  art, 
When  I  arriv'd,  and  heard  thee,  that  made  gape 
The  pine,  and  let  thee  out. 

Ari.  I  thank  thee,  master. 

Pro.  If  thou  more  murmur'st,  I  will  rend  an  oak, 
And  peg  thee  in  his  knotty  entrails,  till 
Thou  hast  howl'd  away  twelve  winters. 

Ari.  Pardon,  master ; 

I  will  be  correspondent  to  command, 
And  do  my  spiriting  gently. 

Pro.  Do  so  ;  and  after  two  days 

I  will  discharge  thee. 

Ari.  That's  my  noble  master  ! 

What  shall  I  do  ?  say  what  ?  what  shall  I  do  ? 

Pro.  Go,  make  thyself  like  to  a  nymph  o'  the  sea ; 
Be  subject  to  no  sight  but  mine  ;  invisible 
To  every  eyeball  else.     Go,  take  this  shape, 

And  hither  come  in't :  hence,  with  diligence.  [Exit  ARIEL, 

Awake,  dear  heart,  awake  !  thou  hast  slept  well ; 
Awake  ! 

Mira.  The  strangeness  of  your  story  put 
Heaviness  in  me. 

Pro.  Shake  it  off;  Come  on ; 

We'll  visit  Caliban,  my^slave,  who  never 
Yields  us  a  kind  answer. 

Mira.  'Tis  t  villain,  sir, 

I  do  not  love  to  look  on. 

Pro.  But,  as  'tis, 

We  cannot  miss  him  :  he  does  make  our  fire, 
Fetch  in  our  wood  ;  and  servee  in  offices 
That  profit  us.     What  ho  !  slave  !  Caliban  ! 
Thou  earth,  thou  !  speak. 

Cal.  [within.]  There's  wood  enough  within. 

Pro.  Come  forth,  1  say  ;  there's  other  business  for  thee ! 
Come  forth,  thou  tortoise  !  when  ? 

Re-enter  ARIEL,  like  a  water-nymph. 

Fine  apparition  !  My  quaint  Ariel, 
Hark  in  thine  ear. 

Ari.  My  lord,  it  «hall  be  done.  [Exu 

Pro.  Thou  poisonous  slave,  coine  forth ! 


THE    TEMPEST  181 

Enter  CALIBAN. 

Cat.  As  wicked  dew  as  e'er  my  mother  brush'd 
With  raven's  feather  from  unwholesome  fen, 
Drop  on  you  both  !  a  south-west  blow  on  ye, 
And  blister  you  all  o'er. 

Pro.  For  this,  be  sure,  to-night  thou  shalt  have  craropa 
Side-stitches  that  shall  pen  thy  breath  up ;  urchins 
Shall,  for  that  vast  of  night  that  they  may  work, 
All  exercise  on  thee  :  thou  shalt  be  pinch'd 
As  thick  as  honey-combs,  each  pinch  more  stinging 
Than  bees  that  made  them. 

Cal.  I  must  eat  my  dinner.  * 

This  island's  mine,  by  Sycorax  my  mother, 
Which  thou  tak'st  from  me.     When  thou  earnest  first 
Thou  strok'dst  me,  and  mad'st  much  of  me ;  wou  id'st  r5  «  me 
Water  with  berries  in't ;  and  teach  me  how 
To  name  the  bigger  light,  and  how  the  less, 
That  burn  by  day  and  night :  and  then  I  lov'd  thee, 
And  show'd  thee  all  the  qualities  o'  the  isle, 
The  fresh  springs,  brine  pits,  barren  place,  and  fertil*  , 
Cursed  be  I  that  I  did  so  ! — All  the  charms 
Of  Sycorax,  toads,  beetles,  bats,  light  on  you ! 
For  I  am  all  the  subjects  that  you  have, 
Which  first  was  mine  own  king  ;  and  here  you  sty  me 
In  this  hard  rock,  while  you  do  keep  from  me 
The  rest  of  the  island. 

Pro.  Abhorred  slave ; 

Which  any  print  of  goodness  will  not  take  ; 
Being  capable  of  all  ill !     I  pitied  thee, 
Took  pains  to  make  thee  speak,  taught  thee  each  hour 
One  thing  or  other  :  when  thou  did'st  not,  savage, 
Know  thine  own  meaning,  but  would'st  gabble  like 
A  thing  most  brutish,  I  endow'd  thy  purposes 
With  words  that  made  them  known :  But  thy  vile  race, 
Though  thou  did'st  learn,  had  that  in't  which  good  naturef 
Could  not  abide  to  be  with  ;  therefore  wast  thou 
Deservedly  confin'd  into  this  TOCK, 
Who  had'st  deserv'd  more  than  a  prison. 

Cal.  You  taught  me  language  ;  and  my  profit  on't 
Is,  I  know  how  to  curse  :  the  red  plague  rid*  you, 
For  learning  me  your  language  ! 

Pro.  Hag-seed,  hence ! 

Fetch  us  in  fuel ;  and  be  quick,  thou  wert  best, 
To  answer  other  business.     Shrug'st  thou,  malice  ? 
If  thou  neglect'st,  or  dost  unwillingly 
What  I  command,  I'll  rack  thee  with  old  cramps ; 
Fill  all  thy  bones  with  aches  ;  make  thee  roar 
That  beasts  shall  tremble  at  thy  din. 

*  Destroy 


132  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Cal  No,  pray  thee  ! — 

[  must  ooey  :  hia  art  is  of  such  power, 
It  would  control  my  dam's  god,  Setebos, 
And  make  a  vassal  of  him. 

Pro.  So,  slave ;  hence !         [Exit  CALIBAN. 

Re-enter  ARIEL  invisible,  playing  and  singing;   FERDINAND  fol* 
lowing  him. 

Fer.  Where  should  this  music  be  ?  i'  the  air,  or  the  earJi  ' 
It  sounds  no  more : — and  sure  it  waits  upon 
Some  god  of  the  island.     Sitting  on  a  bank 
Weeping  again  the  king  my  father's  wreck, 
This  music  crept  by  me  upon  the  waters ; 
Allaying  both  their  fury,  and  my  passion, 
With  its  sweet  air  :  thence  I  have  follow'd  it, 
Or  it  hath  drawn  me  rather : — But  'tis  gone. 
No,  it  begins  again. 

ARIEL  sings. 

Full  fathom  Jive  thy  father  lies : 

Of  his  bones  are  coral  made ; 
Those  are  pearls,  that  were  his  eyes : 

Nothing  of  him  that  doth  fade, 
But  doth  suffer  a  sea-change 
Into  something  rich  and  strange. 
Sea-nymphs  hourly  ring  his  knell : 
Hark  !  now  I  hear  them,  ding-dong,  bell. 
[Burden,  ding-dong. 

Fer.  The  dittty  does  remember  my  drown'd  father: — 
This  is  no  mortal  business,  nor  no  sound 
That  the  earth  owns  : — I  hear  it  now  above  me. 

Pro.  The  fringed  curtain  of  thine  eye  advance 
And  say,  what  thou  seest  yond. 

Mira.  What  is't  ?  a  spirit  ? 

See,  how  it  looks  about !     Believe  me,  sir, 
It  carries  a  brave  form  : — But  'tis  a  spirit. 

Pro.  No,  wench  ;  it  eats  and  sleeps,  and  hath  such  senses 
As  we  have  ;  such  :  This  gallant,  which  thou  seest, 
Was  in  the  wreck  ;  and  but  he's  something  stain'd 
With  grief — that's  beauty's  canker — thou  might'st  call  him 
A  goodly  person.    He  hath  lost  his  fellows, 
And  strays  about  to  find  them. 

Mira.  I  might  call  him 

A  thing  divine  ;  for  nothing  natural 
I  ever  saw  so  noble. 

Pro.  [Aside.]  It  goes  on,  I  see, 

As  my  soul  prompts  it : — Spirit,  fine  spirit !     I'll  free  thee 
Within  two  days  for  this. 


THE    TEMPEST.  183 

Fer.  Most  sure,  the  goddess 

On  whom  these  airs  attend  ! — Vouchsafe,  my  prayer 
May  know,  if  you  remain  upon  this  island  ; 
And  that  you  will  some  good  instruction  give, 
How  I  may  bear  me  here  :  My  prime  request, 
Which  I  do  last  pronounce,  is,  O  you  wonder ! 
If  you  be  maid  or  no  ? 

Mira.  No  wonder,  sir  ; 

But,  certainly  a  maid. 

Fer.  My  language  !  heavens  ! — 

I  am  the  best  of  them  that  speak  this  speech, 
Were  I  but  where  'tis  spoken. 

Pro.  How  !  the  best  ? 

What  wert  thou,  if  the  king  of  Naples  heard  thee '? 

Fer.  A  single  thing,  as  I  am  now,  that  wonders 
To  hear  thee  speak  of  Naples  :  He  does  hear  me  ; 
And,  that  he  does,  I  weep :  myself  am  Naples  ; 
Who  with  mine  eyes,  ne'er  since  at  ebb,  beheld 
The  king  my  father  wrecked. 

Mira.  Alack,  for  mercy  ! 

Fer.  Yes,  faith,  and  all  his  lords  ;  the  duke  of  Milan, 
And  his  brave  son,  being  twain. 

Pro.  The  duke  of  Milan, 

And  his  more  braver  daughter,  could  control  thee, 
If  now  'twere  fit  to  do't : — At  the  first  sight  [Asufe 

They  have  chang'd  eyes  : — Delicate  Ariel, 
I'll  set  thee  free  for  this  ! — A  word,  good  sir ; 
I  fear  you  have  done  yourself  some  wrong :  a  word. 

Mira.  Why  speaks  my  father  so  ungently  ?     This 
Is  the  third  man  that  e'er  I  saw  ;  the  first 
That  e'er  I  sigh'd  for :  pity  move  my  father 
To  be  inclin'd  my  way ! 

Fer.  O,  if  a  virgin, 

And  your  affection  not  gone  forth,  I'll  make  you 
The  queen  of  Naples. 

Pro.  Soft,  sir  ;  one  word  more. — 

They  are  both  in  cither's  powers  ;  but  this  swift  business       [Aside. 
I  must  uneasy  make,  lest  too  light  winning 
Make  the  prize  light. — One  word  more  ;  I  charge  thee, 
That  thou  attend  me  :  thou  dost  here  usurp 
The  name  thou  ow'st  not ;  and  hast  put  thyself 
Upon  this  island  as  a  spy,  to  win  it 
From  me,  the  lord  on't. 

Fer.  No,  as  I  am  a  man. 

Mira.  There's  nothing  ill  can  dwell  in  such  a  temple  : 
If  the  ill  spirit  have  so  fair  an  house, 
Good  things  will  strive  to  dwell  with't. 

Pro.  Follow  me.—  [ 

Bpeak  not  you  for  him  ;  he's  a  traitor. — Come. 


134  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

I'll  manacle  thy  neck  and  feet  together : 
Sea-water  shalt  thou  drink,  thy  food  shall  be 
The  fresh-brook  muscles,  wither'd  roots,  and  husks 
Wherein  the  acorn  cradled  :  Follow. 

Per.  No ; 

I  will  resist  such  entertainment,  till 
Mine  enemy  has  more  power.  [He  diawi 

Mira.  O  dear  father, 

Make  not  too  rash  a  trial  of  him,  for 
He's  gentle,  and  not  fearful.* 

Pro.  What,  I  say, 

My  foot  my  tutor !     Put  thy  sword  up,  traitor ; 
Who  mak'st  a  show,  but  dar'st  not  strike,  thy  conscience 
Is  so  possess'd  with  guilt :  come  ;  from  thy  ward  ; 
For  I  can  here  disarm  thee  with  this  stick, 
And  make  thy  weapon  drop. 

Mira.  Beseech  you,  father  ! 

Pro.  Hence  ;  hang  not  on  my  garments. 

Mira.  Sir,  have  pity, 

I'll  be  his  surety. 

Pro.  Silence  !  one  word  more 

Shall  make  me  chide  thee,  if  not  hate  thee.     What ! 
An  advocate  for  an  impostor  ?  hush  ! 
Thou  think'st  there  are  no  more  such  shapes  as  he, 
Having  seen  but  him  and  Caliban :  Foolish  wench  ! 
To  the  most  of  men  this  is  a  Caliban, 
And  they  to  him  are  angels. 

Mira.  My  affections 

Are  then  most  humble  ;  I  have  no  ambition 
To  see  a  goodlier  man. 

Pro.  Come  on  ;  obey  •  [To  F«,su 

Thy  nerves  are  in  their  infancy  again, 
And  have  no  vigor  in  them. 

Per.  So  they  are : 

My  spirits,  as  in  a  dream,  are  all  bound  up. 
My  father's  loss,  the  weakness  which  I  feel, 
The  wreck  of  all  my  friends,  or  this  man's  threats, 
To  whom  I  am  subdued,  are  but  light  to  me, 
Might  I  but  through  my  prison  once  a  day    • 
Behold  this  maid  :  all  corners  else  of  the  earth 
Let  liberty  make  use  of;  space  enough 
Have  I,  in  such  a  prison. 

Pro.  It  works  : — Come  on. — 

Thou  hast  done  well,  fine  Ariel !— Follow  me.—  [  To  FFRD.  and  MIR 
Hark,  what  thou  else  shalt  do  me.  [  To  ARIEL, 

Mira.  Be  of  comft  irt ; 

My  father's  of  a  better  nature,  sir, 

*  Frightful 


THE    TEMPEST.  185 

Than  he  appears  by  speech  ;  this  is  unwonted, 
Which  now  came  from  him. 

Pro.  Thou  shalt  be  as  free 

As  mountain  whms  ;  but  then  exactly  do 
All  points  of  my  command 

Ari.  To  the  syllable. 

Pro.  Come,  follow  :  speak  not  for  him.  [Exeunt. 

Ferdinand  is  compelled,  by  the  power  of  Prospero,  to  assume  the  menial  employmen 
of  an  attendant  on  the  Magician,  the  more  readily  to  bring  the  young  Prince  '»to  an  M 
quaintance  with  Miranda,  who  regards  him  with  affection. 

ACT  III. 

SCENE  I.— Before  Prospero's  Cell. 
Enter  FERDINAND,  bearing  a  log. 

Fer.  There  be  some  sports  are  painful ;  but  their  labor 
Delight  in  them  sets  off;  some  kinds  of  baseness 
Are  nobly  undergone ;  and  most  poor  matters 
Point  to  rich  ends.     This  my  mean  task  would  be 
As  heavy  to  me,  as  'tis  odious  ;  but 
The  mistress,  which  I  serve,  quickens  what's  dead, 
And  makes  my  labors  pleasures  :  O,  she  is 
Ten  times  more  gentle  than  her  father's  crabbed ; 
And  he's  compos'd  of  harshness.     I  must  remove 
Some  thousands  of  these  logs,  and  pile  them  up, 
Upon  a  sore  injunction  :  My  sweet  mistress 
Weeps  when  she  sees  me  work  ;  and  says,  such  baseness 
Had  ne'er  like  executor.     I  forget : 
But  these  sweet  thoughts  do  even  refresh  my  labors  ; 
Most  busy,  least  when  I  do  it. 

Enter  MIRANDA,  and  PROSPERO  at  a  distance. 

Mira.  Alas,  now  !  pray  you 

Work  not  so  hard  ;  I  would  the  lightning  had 
Burnt  up  those  logs,  that  you  are  enjoin'd  to  pile  ! 
Pray,  set  it  down,  and  rest  you  :  when  this  burns, 
'Twill  weep  for  having  wearied  you  :  My  father 
Is  hard  at  study  ;  pray  now,  rest  yourself ; 
He's  safe  for  these  three  hours. 

Fer.  O  most  dear  mistress, 

The  sun  will  set,  before  I  shall  discharge 
What  I  must  strive  to  do. 

Mira.  If  you'll  sit  down, 

'11  bear  your  logs  the  while :  Pray,  give  me  that ; 
I'll  carry  it  to  the  pile. 

Fer.  No  :  precious  creature ! 

/had  rather  crack  my  sinews,  break  my  back, 


186 


SHAKESPEARIAN    READER, 


Than  you  should  such  dishonor  undergo, 
While  I  sit  lazy  by. 

Mira.  It  would  become  me 

As  well  as  it  does  you :  and  I  should  do  it 
With  much  more  ease  ;  for  my  good  will  is  to  it, 
And  yours  it  is  against. 

Pro.  Poor  worm  !  thou  art  infeuted 

This  visitation  shows  it. 

Mira.  You  look  wearily. 

Fer.  No,  noble  mistress  ;  'tis  fresh  morning  with  m« 
When  you  are  by  at  night.     I  do  beseech  you, 
(Chiefly,  that  I  might  set  it  in  my  prayers,) 
What  is  your  name  ? 

Mira.  Miranda : — O  my  father, 

I  have  broke  your  hest  to  say  so  ! 

Fer.  Admir'd  Miranda ! 

Indeed,  the  top  of  admiration  ;  worth 
What's  dearest  to  the  world  !     Full  many  a  lady 
I  have  ey'd  with  best  regard ;  and  many  a  time 
The  harmony  of  their  tongues  hath  into  bondage 
Brought  my  too  diligent  ear  :  for  several  virtues 
Have  I  lik'd  several  women ;  never  any 
With  so  full  soul,  but  some  defect  in  her 
Did  quarrel  with  the  noblest  grace  she  ow'd, 
And  put  it  to  the  foil :  But  you,  O  you, 
So  perfect  and  so  peerless,  are  created 
Of  every  creature's  best. 

Mira.  I  do  not  know 

One  of  my  sex ;  no  woman's  face  remember, 
Save,  from  my  glass,  mine  own ;  nor  have  I  seen 
More  that  I  may  call  men,  than  you,  good  friend, 
And  my  dear  father :  how  features  are  abroad, 
I  am  skilless  of;  but,  by  my  modesty, 
(The  jewel  in  my  dower,)  I  would  not  wish 
Any  companion  in  the  world  but  you ; 
Nor  can  imagination  form  a  shape, 
Beside  yourself,  to  like  of ;  But  I  prattle 
Something  too  widely,  and  my  father's  precepts 
I  therein  do  forget. 

Fer.  I  am,  in  my  condition, 

A  prince,  Miranda ;  I  do  think,  a  king ; 
(I  would,  not  so  !)  and  would  no  more  endure 
This  wooden  slavery,  than  I  would  suffer 
The  flesh-fly  blow  my  mouth. — Hear  my  soul  speak  j—» 
The  very  instant  that  I  saw  you,  did 
My  heart  fly  to  your  service ;  there  resides, 
To  make  me  slave  to  it ;  and  for  your  sake, 
Am  I  this  patient  lag-man. 

Mira.  Do  you  love  me '/ 


THE    TEMPEST.  187 

Fer.  O  heaven,  O  earth,  bear  witness  to  this  sound 
And  crown  what  I  profess  with  kind  event, 
If  I  speak  true  ;  if  hollowly,  invert 
What  best  is  boded  me,  to  mischief!     I, 
Beyond  all  limit  of  what  else  i'  the  world, 
Do  love,  prize,  honor  you. 

Mir  a.  I  am  a  fool, 

To  weep  at  what  I  am  glad  of. 

Pro.  Fair  encounter 

Of  two  most  rare  affections  !     Heavens  rain  grace 
On  that  which  breeds  between  them  ! 

Fer.  Wherefore  weep  you  ? 

Mira.  At  mine  unworthiness,  that  dare  not  offer 
What  I  desire  to  give  ;  and  much  less  take, 
What  I  shall  die  to  want :  But  this  is  trifling ; 
And  all  the  more  it  seeks  to  hide  itself, 
The  bigger  bulk  it  shows.     Hence,  bashful  cunning  ! 
And  proinpt  me,  plain  and  holy  innocence ! 
I  am  your  wife,  if  you  will  marry  me  ; 
If  not,  I'll  die  your  maid  :  to  be  your  fellow 
You  may  deny  me  ;  but  I'll  be  your  servant, 
Whether  you  will  or  no. 

Fer.  My  mistress,  dearest, 

And  I  thus  humble  ever. 

Mira.  My  husband  then  ? 

Fer.  Ay,  with  a  heart  as  willing 
As  bondage  e'er  of  freedom  :  here's  my  hand. 

Mira.  And  mine,  with  my  heart  in't :  And  now  farewell, 
Till  half  an  hour  hence. 

Fer.  A  thousand  !  thousand  ! 

[Exeunt  FER.  and  MIB. 

Pro.  So  glad  of  this  as  they,  I  cannot  be, 
Who  are  surpris'd  with  all ;  but  my  rejoicing 
At  nothing  can  be  more.     I'll  to  my  book ; 
For  yet  ere  supper  time,  must  I  perform 
Much  business  appertaining.  [Exit. 

Caliban  and  Ariel,  under  the  direction  of  Prospero,  take  charge  of  the  other  character* 
saved  from  the  wreck.  Caliban,  to  whom  is  confided  the  care  of  the  Sailors,  drawl 
them  into  a  conspiracy  to  destroy  Prospero.  The  King  and  his  Company  are  brought  by 
Ariel  to  another  part  of  the  Island. 

Enter  ALONZO,  SEBASTIAN,  ANTONTO,  GONZALO,  ADRIAN,  FRANCTSCC\ 
and  others. 

Gon.  By'r  la'kin,  I  can  go  no  further,  sir  ; 
My  old  bones  ache :  here's  a  maze  trod,  indeed, 
Through  forth-rights  and  meanders  !  by  your  patience, 
>  needs  must  rest  me. 

Alon.  Old  lord,  I  cannot  blame  thee, 


188  SHAKSPEAIUAN    READER. 

Who  am  myself  attach'd  with  weariness, 
To  the  dulling  of  my  spirits :  sit  down,  and  rest, 
Even  here  I  will  put  off  my  hope,  and  keep  it 
No  longer  for  my  flatterer  :  he  is  drown'd, 
Whom  thus  we  stray  to  find ;  and  the  sea  mocks 
Our  frustrate  search  on  land :  Well,  let  him  go. 

Ant.  I  am  right  glad  that  he's  so  out  of  hope. 

[Aside  to  SEBASTIAN 

Do  not,  for  one  repulse,  forego  the  purpose 
That  you  resolv'd  to  effect. 

8eb.  The  next  advantage 

Will  we  take  thoroughly. 

Ant.  Let  it  be  to-nijrht ; 

For,  now  they  are  oppress'd  with  travel,  they 
Will  not,  nor  cannot,  use  such  vigilance, 
As  when  they  are  fresh. 

Seb.  I  say,  to-night :  no  more. 

Solemn  and  strange  music ;  and  PROSPERO  above,  invisible.     Erier 

several  strange  Shapes,  bringing  in  a  banquet ;  they  dance  about  it 

with  gentle  actions  of  salutation ;  and  inviting  the  Xing,  <f«e.  to  eat 

they  depart. 

Alon.  What  harmony  is  this  ?  my  good  friends,  hark  ! 

Gon.  Marvellous  sweet  music  ! 

Alon.  Give  us  kind  keepers,  heavens  !     What  were  these  ? 

Seb.  A  living  drollery  :  Now  I  will  believe 
That  there  are  unicorns  ;  that,  in  Arabia 
There  is  one  tree,  the  phoenix'  throne  ;  one  phoenix 
At  this  hour  reigning  there. 

Ant.  I'll  believe  both  ; 

And  what  does  else  want  credit,  come  to  me, 
And  I'll  be  sworn  'tis  true ;  Travellers  ne'er  did  lie, 
Though  fools  at  home  condemn  them. 

Gon.  If  in  Naples 

I  should  report  this  now,  would  they  believe  me  ? 
If  I  should  say,  I  saw  such  islanders, 
(For,  certes,  these  are  people  of  the  island,) 
Who,  though  they  are  of  monstrous  shape,  yet,  note, 
Their  manners  are  more  gentle-kind,  than  of 
Our  human  generation  you  shall  find 
Many,  nay,  almost  any. 

Pro.     [Aside.]  Honest  lord 

Thou  hast  said  well ;  for  some  of  you  mere  present, 
Are  worse  than  demons. 

Alon.  I  cannot  too  much  muse, 

Such  shapes,  such  gesture,  and  such  sound,  expressing 
(Although  they  want  the  use  of  tongue)  a  kind 
Of  excellent  dumb  discourse. 

Pro.     [Aside.]  Praise  in  departing. 


THE    TEMPEST.  189 

Fran.  They  vanish'd  strangely. 

Seb.  No  matter,  since 

They  have  left  their  viands  behind ;  for  we  have  stomachs.— 
VVill't  please  you  taste  of  what  is  here  ? 

Alon.  Not  I. 

Crorc.  Faith,  sir,  you  peed  not  fear :  When  we  were  boys, 
Who  would  believe  that  there  were  mountaineers, 
Dew-lapp'd  like  bulls,  whose  throats  had  hanging  at  them 
Wallets  of  flesh  ?  or  that  there  were  such  men, 
Whose  heads  stood  in  their  breasts  ?  which  now  we  find, 
Each  putter-out  on  five  for  one,  will  bring  us 
Good  warrant  of. 

A  Ion.  T  will  stand  to,  and  feed, 

Although  my  last :  no  matter,  since  I  feel, 
The  best  is  past : — Brother,  my  lord  the  duke, 
Stand  to,  and  do  as  we. 

Thunder  and  lightning.  Enter  ARIEL  like  a  harpy;  claps  hh 
wings  upon  the  table,  and  with  a  quaint  device,  the  banquet  vanishes. 
Ari.  You  are  three  men  of  sin,  whom  destiny 

(That  hath  to  instrument  this  lower  world, 

And  what  is  in't,)  the  never-surfeited  sea 

Hath  caused  to  belch  up ;  and  on  this  island 

Where  man  doth  not  inhabit ;  you  'mongst  men 

Being  most  unfit  to  live.     I  have  made  you  mad ; 

[Seeing  AL»N.  SEE.  t$-c.  draw  their  word*. 

And  even  with  such  like  valor,  men  hang  and  drown 

Their  proper  selves.     You  fools  !  I  and  my  fellows 

Are  ministers  of  fate ;  the  elements, 

Of  whom  your  swords  are  temper'd,  may  as  well 

Wound  the  loud  winds,  or  with  bemock'd-at  stabs 

Kill  the  still-closing  waters,  as  diminish 

One  dowle  that's  in  my  plume  ;  my  fellow  ministers 

Are  like  invulnerable :  if  you  could  hurt, 

Your  swords  are  now  too  massy  for  your  strengths, 

And  will  not  be  uplifted  :  But,  remember, 

(For  that's  my  business  to  you,)  that  you  three 

From  Milan  did  supplant  good  Prospero ; 

Expos'd  unto  the  sea,  which  hath  requit  it, 

Him,  and  his  innocent  child  :  for  which  foul  deed 

The  powers,  delaying,  not  forgetting,  have 

Incens'd  the  seas  and  shores,  yea,  all  the  creatures, 

Against  your  peace  :  Thee,  of  thy  son,  Alonzo, 

They  have  bereft ;  and  do  pronounce  by  me, 

Ling'ring  perdition  (worse  than  any  death 

Can  be  at  once)  shall  step  by  step  attend 

You,  and  your  ways ;  whose  wraths  to  guard  you  from 

(Which  here,  in  this  most  desolate  isle,  else  falls 

Upon  your  heads,)  is  nothing,  but  heart's  sorrow, 

And  a  clear  life  ensuing. 


190  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 


He  Danishes  in  thunder :  then,  to  soft  music,  enter  the  Shapes  agair^ 
and  dance  with  mops  and  mowes,  and  carry  out  the  table. 

Pro.  [Aside.]  Bravely  the  figure  of  this  harpy  hast  thou 
Perform'd,  my  Ariel ;  a  grace  it  had,  devouring : 
Of  my  instruction  hast  thou  nothing  'bated, 
In  what  thou  hadst  to  say  :  so,  with  good  life, 
And  observation  strange,  my  meaner  ministers 
Their  several  kinds  have  done  :  my  high  charms  work, 
And  these,  mine  enemies,  are  all  knit  up 
In  their  distractions  :  they  now  are  in  my  power ; 
And  in  these  fits  I  leave  them,  whilst  I  visit 
Young  Ferdinand,  (whom  they  suppose  is  drown'd,) 
And  his  and  my  loved  darling.  [Exit  PROSPER  3  from  above. 

Gon.  I'  the  name  of  something  holy,  sir,  why  stand  you 
In  this  strange  stare  ? 

Alon.  O,  it  is  monstrous  !  monstrous ! 

Methought,  the  billows  spoke,  and  told  me  of  it ; 
The  winds  did  sing  it  to  me  ;  and  the  thunder, 
That  deep  and  dreadful  organ-pipe,  pronounc'd 
The  name  of  Prosper ;  it  did  bass  my  trespass. 
Therefore  my  son  i'  the  ooze  is  bedded  ;  and 
I'll  seek  him  deeper  than  e'er  plummet  sounded, 
And  with  him  there  lie  mudded.  [Exit. 

Seb.  But  one  fiend  at  a  time, 

I'll  fight  their  legions  o'er. 

Ant.  I'll  be  thy  second.  [Exeunt  SEB.  and  ANT 

Gon.  All  three  of  them  are  desperate  ;  their  great  guilt, 
Like  poison  given  to  work  a  great  time  after, 
Now  'gins  to  bite  the  spirits  : — I  do  beseech  you 
That  are  of  suppler  joints,  follow  them  swiftly, 
And  hinder  them  from  what  this  ecstasy 
May  now  provoke  them  to. 

Adr.  Follow,  I  pray  you.  {Exeunt 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I.— Before  Prospero's  Cell. 
Enter  PROSPERO,  FERDINAND,  and  MIRANDA 

Pro.  If  I  have  too  austerely  punish'd  you, 
Your  compensation  makes  amends  ;  for  I 
Have  given  you  here  a  thread  of  mine  own  life, 
Or  that  for  which  I  live  ;  whom  once  again 
[  tender  to  thy  hand  :  all  thy  vexations 
Were  but  my  trials  of  thy  love,  and  thou 
Hast  strangely  stood  the  test :  here,  afore  Heaven, 


THE    TEMPEST.  101 

T  ratify  this  my  rich  gift.     O,  Ferdinand, 
Do  not  smile  at  me,  that  I  boast  her  off, 
For  thou  shall  tind  she  will  outstrip  all  praise, 
And  make  it  halt  behind  her. 

Fer.  I  do  believe  it, 

Against  an  oracle. 

Pro.  Then,  as  my  gift,  and  thine  own  acquisition 
Worthily  purchas'd,  take  my  daughter  :  But  not 
Til!  sanctimonious  ceremonies  may 
With  full  and  holy  rite  be  minister'd : 
Then  Hymen's  lamps  shall  light  you. 

Fer.  As  I  hope 

For  quiet  days,  fair  issue,  and  long  life, 
With  such  love  as  'tis  now ;  the  strong'st  suggestion 
Our  worser  Genius  can,  shall  never  taint 
Mine  honor. 

Pro.  Fairly  spoke : 

Sit  then,  and  talk  with  her,  she  is  thine  own. — 
What,  Ariel :  my  industrious  servant  Ariel ! 
Enter  ARIEL. 

Ari.  What  would  my  potent  master  ?  here  I  am. 

Pro.  Thou  and  thy  meaner  fellows  your  last  service 
Did  worthily  perform ;  and  I  must  use  you 
In  such  another  trick  :  go,  bring  the  rabble, 
O'er  whom  I  give  thee  power,  here,  to  this  p.ace : 
Incite  them  to  quick  motion ;  for  I  must 
Bestow  upon  the  eyes  of  this  young  couple 
Some  vanity  of  mine  art ;  it  is  my  promise, 
And  they  expect  it  from  me. 

Ari.  Presently  ? 

Pro.  Aye,  with  a  twink. 

Ari.  Before  you  can  say,  Come,  and  ga> 
And  breathe  twice ;  and  cry,  so,  so ; 
Each  one,  tripping  on  his  toe, 
Will  be  here  with  mop  and  mowe : 
Do  you  love  me,  master  ?  no  ? 

Pro.  Dearly,  my  delicate  Ariel :  Do  not  approach, 
Till  thou  dost  hear  me  call. 

Ari.  Well  I  conceive.  !  Exit. 

Pro.  Look,  thou  be  true. 

Fer.  I  warrant  you,  sir. 

Pro.  Well.— 

Now  come,  my  Ariel :  bring  a  corollary, 
Rather  than  want  a  spirit :  appear,  and  pertly. — 
No  tongue ;  all  eyes  :  be  silent.  (  Soft  music 

A  Masque.      Enter  IRIS. 

7m.  Ceres,  most  bounteous  lady,  thy  rich  leas 
Of  wheat,  rye,  barley,  vetches,  oats,  and  pease  ; 


192  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Thy  turfy  mountains,  where  live  nibbling  sheep, 

And  flat  meads  thatch'd  with  stover,  them  to  keep ; 

Thy  hanks  with  peonied  and  lilied  brims, 

With  spongy  April  at  thy  hest*  betrims, 

To  make  cold  nymphs  chaste  crowns  ;  and  thy  broom  groves. 

Whose  shadow  the  dismissed  bachelor  loves, 

Being  lass-lorn  ;  thy  poie-clipt  vineyard  ; 

And  thy  sea-marge,  steril,  and  rocky-hard, 

Where  thou  thyself  dost  air  :  The  queen  o'  the  sky, 

Whose  watery  arch,  and  messenger,  urn  I, 

Bids  thee  leave  these ;  and  with  her  sovereign  grace, 

Here  on  this  grass-plot,  in  this  very  place, 

To  come  and  sport :  her  peacocks  fly  amain  ; 

Approach,  rich  Ceres,  her  to  entertain. 

Enter  CERES. 

Cer.  Hail  many-color'd  messenger,  that  ne'er 
Dost  disobey  the  wife  of  Jupiter. 
Who,  with  thy  saffron  wing,  upon  my  flowers 
Diffusest  honey-drops,  refreshing  showers  ; 
And  with  each  end  of  thy  blue  bow  dost  crown 
My  bosky  acres,  and  my  unshrubb'd  down, 
Rich  scarf  to  my  proud  earth  ;  Why  hath  thy  queen 
Summon'd  me  hither,  to  this  short-grass'd  green  ? 

Iris.  A  contract  of  true  love  to  celebrate  ; 
And  some  donation  freely  to  estate 
On  the  bless'd  lovers. 

Cer.  Tell  me,  heavenly  bow, 

Tf  Venus,  or  her  son,  as  thou  dost  know, 
Do  now  attend  the  queen  ?  since  they  did  plot 
The  means,  that  dusky  Dis  my  daughter  got, 
Her  and  her  blind  boy's  scandal'd  company ") 
1  have  forsworn. 

Iris.  Of  her  society 

Be  not  afraid  ;  I  met  her  deity  J 

Cutting  the  clouds  towards  Paphos ;  and  her  son 
Dove-drawn  with  her. 

Cer.  Highest  queen  of  state, 

Great  Juno  comes  :  I  know  her  by  her  gait. 

Enter  JUNO. 

Jun.  How  does  my  bounteous  sister  ?     Go  with  m«. 
To  bless  this  twain,  that  they  may  prosperous  be 
Ajid  honor'd  in  their  issue. 

SONG. 

Jun.  Honor,  riches,  marriage-blessing, 
Long  continuance,  and  increasing, 

*  Command. 


THE    TEMPEST.  193 

Hourly  joys  be  still  upon  you  ! 
Juno  sings  lier  blessings  on  you. 
Cer.  Earth's  increase,  and  foison*  plenty, 
Barns  and  garners  never  empty ; 
Vines,  with  clustering  bunches  growing  • 
Plants,  with  goodly  burden  bowing ; 
Spring  come  to  you,  at  the  farthest, 
In  the  very  end  of  harvest  I 
Scarcity  and  want  shall  shun  you  ; 
Ceres'  blessing  so  is  on  you. 
Fer.  This  is  a  most  majestic  vision,  and 
Harmonious  charmingly  :  May  I  be  bold 
To  think  these  spirits  ? 

Pro.  Spirits,  which  by  mine  art 

I  have  from  their  confines  called  to  enact 
My  present  fancies. 

Fer.  Let  me  live  here  ever  ; 

So  rare  a  wonder'd  father,  and  a  wife, 
Make  this  place  Paradise. 

[JuNo  and  O.RES  whisper,  and  send  IRIS  on  employment. 
Pro.  Sweet  now,  silence  ; 

Juno  and  Ceres  whisper  seriously  ; 
There's  something  else  to  do  :  hush,  and  be  mute, 
Or  else  our  spell  is  marr'd. 

Iris.  You  nymphs,  call't'  Naiads,  of  the  wand'ring  brocks, 
With  your  sedg'd  crowns,  *»nd  ever  harmless  looks, 
Leave  your  crisp  channels,  and  on  this  green  land 
Answer  your  summons  :  Juno  does  command  ; 
Come,  temperate  nymphs,  and  help  to  celebrate 
A  contract  of  true  love  ;  be-  not  too  late. 

» 

Enter  certain  Nymphs. 

You  sun-burn'd  sicklemen  of  August  weary, 
Come  hither  from  the  furrow,  and  be  merry ; 
Make  holiday  :  your  rye-stmw  hats  put  on, 
And  these  fresh  nymphs  encounter  every  one 
In  country  footing. 

Enter  certain  Reape^f,  yrrperly  habited ;  they  join  loilh  the  Nymphs 
ir<,  a  graceful  da.nce  ;   towards  the  end  whereof  PROSPERO  starts 
suddenly,  and  speak?  ;  after  which,  to  a  strange,  hollow,  and  con- 
fused noise,  they  heavily  vanish. 
Pro.  [Aside.]  I  had  forgot  that  foul  conspiracy 

Of  the  beast  C-iliban,  and  his  confederates, 

Against  my  life  ;  the  minute  of  their  plot 

[s  almost  cnpie. —  [To  the  Spirits.]  Well  done  ; — avoid  ; — no  mora 
Fe^.  This  is  most  strange  :  your  father's  in  some  passion 

That  works  him  strongly. 

*  Abundance. 

10 


194  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Mira.  Never  till  this  day, 

Saw  I  him  touch'd  with  anger  so  distemper'd. 

Pro.  You  do  look,  my  son,  in  a  mov'd  sort 
As  if  you  were  dismay'd  :  be  cheerful,  sir  : 
Our  revels  now  are  ended :  these  our  actors, 
As  I  foretold  you,  were  all  spirits,  and 
Are  melted  into  air,  into  thin  air  : 
And,  like  the  baseless  fabric  of  this  vision, 
The  cloud-capp'd  towers,  the  gorgeous  palaces, 
The  solemn  temples,  the  great  globe  itself, 
Yea,  all  which  it  inherit,  shall  dissolve  ; 
And,  like  this  insubstantial  pageant  faded, 
Leave  not  a  rack  behind  :  We  are  such  stuff 
As  dreams  are  made  of,  and  our  little  life 
Is  rounded  with  a  sleep. — Sir,  I  am  vex'd  ; 
Bear  with  my  weakness  ;  my  old  brain  is  troubled. 
Be  not  disturb'd  with  my  infirmity  : 
If  you  be  pleas'd,  retire  into  my  cell, 
And  there  repose  ;  a  turn  or  two  I'll  walk, 
To  still  my  beating  mind. 

Fer.  Mira.  We  wish  your  peace.  [Exeunt. 

Prospero  defeats  the  Plot  laid  by  Caliban,  and  punishes  the  Co^apimion  through  the 
agency  of  his  attendant  spirits. 

ACT    V. 

SCENE  I.— Before  the  Cell  of  Prospero. 
Enter  PROSPERO  in  his  magic  robes ;  ana  ARIEL. 

Pro.  Now  does  my  project  gather  to  a  head : 
My  charms  crack  not ;  my  spirits  obey  ;  and  time 
Goes  upright  with  his  carriage.     How's  the  day  ? 

Ari.  On  the  sixth  hour ;  at  which  time,  my  lord, 
You  said  our  work  should  cease. 

Pro.  I  did  say  so, 

When  first  I  rais'd  the  tempest.     Say,  my  spirit, 
How  fares  the  king  and  his  ? 

Ari.  Confin'd  together 

In  the  same  fashion  as  you  gave  in  charge  ; 
Just  as  you  left  them,  sir ;  all  prisoners 
In  the  lime-grove  which  weather-fends  your  cell ; 
They  cannot  budge,  till  your  release.     The  king, 
His  brother,  and  yours,  abide  all  three  distracted  ; 
And  the  remainder  mourning  over  them, 
Brim-full  of  sorrow  and  dismay ;  but  chiefly 
Him  you  term'd,  sir,  The  good  old  lord,  Gonzalo ; 
His  tears  run  down  his  beard,  like  winter's  drops 
From  eaves  of  reeds :  your  charm  so  strongly  works  them. 
That  if  you  now  beheld  them,  your  affections 
Would  become  tender. 


THE    TEMPEST.  195 

Pro.  Dost  thou  think  so,  spirit  ? 

Ari.  Mine  would,  sir,  were  I  human. 

Pro.  And  mine  shall. 

Hast  thou,  which  art  but  air,  a  touch,  a  feeling 
Of  their  afflictions  ?  and  shall  not  myself, 
One  of  their  kind,  that  relish  all  as  sharpty, 
Passion  as  they,  be  kindlier  mov'd  than  thou  art  ? 
Though  with  their  high  wrongs  I  am  struck  to  the  quick, 
Yet,  with  my  nobler  reason  'gainst  my  fury 
Do  1  take  part :  the  rarer  action  is 
In  virtue  than  in  vengeance  :  they  being  penitent, 
The  sole  drift  of  my  purpose  doth  extend 
Not  a  frown  further :  Go,  release  them,  Ariel ; 
My  charms  I'll  break,  their  senses  I'll  restore, 
And  they  shall  be  themselves. 

Ari.  I'll  fetch  them,  sir.  [Exit, 

Pro.  Ye  elves  of  hills,  brooks,  standing  lakes,  and  growx»; 
And  ye,  that  on  the  sands  with  printless  foot 
Do  chase  the  ebbing  Neptune,  and  do  fly  him, 
When  he  comes  back ;  you  demi-puppets,  that 
By  moonshine  do  the  green-sour  ringlets  make, 
Whereof  the  ewe  not  bites  ;  and  you,  whose  pastime 
Is  to  make  midnight-mushrooms  ;  that  rejoice 
To  hear  the  solemn  curfew  ;  by  whose  aid 
(Weak  masters  though  ye  be),  I  have  bedimm'd 
The  noontide  sun,  call'd  forth  the  mutinous  winds, 
And  'twixt  the  green  sea  and  the  azur'd  vault 
Set  roaring  war :  to  the  dread  rattling  thunder 
Have  I  given  fire,  and  rifted  Jove's  stout  oak 
With  his  own  bolt :  the  strong-bas'd  promontory 
Have  I  made  shake  ;  and  by  the  spurs  pluck'd  up 
The  pine  and  cedar :  graves,  at  my  command, 
Have  waked  their  sleepers ;  oped,  and  let  them  forth 
By  my  so  potent  art :  But  this  rough  magic 
I  here  abjure  :  and,  when  I  have  requir'd 
Some  heavenly  music,  (which  even  now  I  do,) 
To  work  mine  end  upon  their  senses,  that 
This  airy  charm  is  for,  I'll  break  my  staff, 
Bury  it  certain  fathoms  in  the  earth, 
And,  deeper  than  did  ever  plummet  sound, 
I'll  drown  my  book.  [Solemn  music.. 

Re-enter  ARIEL  :  after  Mm,  ALONZO,  with  a  frantic  gesture,  attended 
by  GONZALO  ;  SEBASTIAN  and  ANTONIO  in  like  manner,  attended 
by  ADRIAN  and  FRANCISCO  :  they  all  enter  the  circle  which  PROS- 
PERO  had  made,  and  there  stand  charmed;  which  PROSPERO  ob- 
serving, speaks. 

A  solemn  air,  and  the  best  comforter 
To  an  unsettled  fancy,  cure  thy  brains, 


196  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Now  useless,  boil'd  within  thy  skull !     There  stand, 

For  you  are  spell  stopp'd. 

Holy  Gonzalo,  honorable  man, 

Mine  eyes,  even  sociable  to  the  show  of  thine, 

Fall  fellowly  drops. — The  charm  dissolves  apace  ; 

And  as  the  morning  steals  upon  the  night, 

Melting  the  darkness,  so  their  rising  senses 

Begin  to  chase  the  ignorant  fumes  that  mantle 

Their  clearer  reason. — O  my  good  Gonzalo, 

My  true  preserver,  and  a  loyal  sir 

To  him  thou  follow'st ;  I  will  pay  thy  graces 

Home,  both  in  word  and  deed. — Most  cruelly 

Didst  thou,  Alonzo,  use  me  and  my  daughter : 

Thy  brother  was  a  furtherer  in  the  act ; — 

Thou'rt  pinch'd  for't  now,  Sebastian. — Flesh  and  blood, 

You  brother  mine,  that  entertain'd  ambition, 

Expell'd  remorse  and  nature ;  who,  with  Sebastian 

(Whose  inward  pinches  therefore  are  most  strong,)" 

Would  have  kill'd  your  king ;  I  do  forgive  thee, 

Unnatural  though  thou  art ! — Their  understanding 

Begins  to  swell ;  and  the  approaching  tide 

Will  shortly  fill  the  reasonable  shores, 

That  now  lie  foul  and  muddy.     Not  one  of  them, 

That  yet  looks  on  me,  or  would  know  me  : — Ariel, 

Fetch  me  the  hat  and  rapier  in  my  cell ;  [Exit  ARIEL, 

I  will  dis-case  me,  and  myself  present, 

As  I  was  sometime  Milan  : — quickly,  spirit ; 

Thou  shalt  ere  long  be  free. 

ARIEL  re-enters,  singing,  and  helps  to  attire  PROSPERO. 

ARI.     Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  I: 
In  a  cowslip's  bell  I  lie ; 
There  I  couch  when  owls  do  cry. 
On  the  baCs  back  I  do  fly, 
After  summer,  merrily  : 
Merrily,  merrily,  shall  I  live  now, 
Under  the  blossom  that  hangs  on  the  bough. 
Pro.  Why,  that's  my  dainty  Ariel :  I  shall  miss  thee  ; 
But  yet  thou  shalt  have  freedom  :  so,  so,  so.— 
To  the  king's  ship,  invisible  as  thou  art : 
There  shalt  thou  find  the  mariners  asleep 
Under  the  hatches  ;  the  master,  and  the  boatswain, 
Being  awake,  enforce  them  to  this  place  ; 
And  presently,  I  pr'ythee. 

Ari.  I  drink  the  air  before  me,  and  return 
Or  e'er  your  pulse  twice  beat.  [Exit  ARIEI, 

Gon.  All  torment,  trouble,  wonder,  and  amazement 
Fnhabits  here :  Some  heavenly  power  guide  us 
Out  of  this  fearful  country ! 


THE    TEMPEST.  197 

Pro.  Behold,  sir  king, 

The  wronged  Duke  of  Milan,  Prospero  : 
For  more  assurance  that  a  living  prince 
Does  now  speak  to  thee,  I  embrace  thy  body ; 
And  to  thee,  and  thy  company,  I  bid 
A  hearty  welcome. 

A/on.  Whe'r  thou  beest  he,  or  no, 

Or  some  enchanted  trifle  to  abuse  me, 
As  late  I  have  been,  I  not  know :  thy  pulse 
Beats,  as  of  flesh  and  blood ;  and,  since  I  saw  thee, 
The  affliction  of  my  mind  amends,  with  which, 
I  fear,  a  madness  held  me  :  this  must  crave 
(And  if  this  be  at  all)  a  most  strange  story. 
Thy  dukedom  I  resign  ;  and  I  do  entreat 
Thou  pardon  me  my  wrongs  : — But  how  should  Prospero 
Be  living,  and  be  here  ? 

Pro.  First,  noble  friend, 

Let  me  embrace  thine  age  ;  whose  honor  cannot 
Be  measur'd,  or  confin'd. 

Gon.  Whether  this  be, 

Or  be  not,  I'll  not  swear. 

Pro.  You  do  yet  taste 

Some  subtilties  o'  the  isle,  that  will  not  let  you 
Believe  things  certain  : — Welcome,  my  friends  all : — 
But  you,  my  brace  of  lords,  were  I  so  minded, 

[Aside  to  SEE.,  and  ANT 

I  here  could  pluck  his  highness'  frown  upon  you, 
And  justify  you  traitors  ;  at  this  time 
I'll  tell  no  tales. 

Seb.  The  devil  speaks  in  him.  [Aside. 

Pn  No : 

For  you,  most  wicked  sir,  whom  to  call  brother 
Would  even  infect  my  mouth,  I  do  forgive 
Thy  rankest  fault ;  all  of  them  ;  and  require 
My  dukedom  of  thee,  which,  perforce,  I  know, 
Thou  must  restore. 

Alon.  If  thou  beest  Prospero, 

Give  us  particulars  of  thy  preservation : 
How  thou  hast  met  us  here,  who  three  hours  since 
Were  wreck'd  upon  this  shore ;  where  I  have  lost, 
How  sharp  the  point  of  this  remembrance  is  ! 
My  dear  son  Ferdinand. 

Pro.  I  am  woe  for't,  sir. 

Alon.  Irreparable  is  the  loss  ;  and  patience 
Says  it  is  past  her  cure. 

Pro.  I  rather  think, 

Vou  have  not  sought  her  help  ;  of  whose  soft  grace 
For  the  like  loss,  I  have  her  sovereign  aid, 
And  rest  myself  content. 


198  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Alon.  You  the  like  loss  ? 

Pro.  As  great  to  me,  as  late  ;  and,  supportable 
To  make  the  dear  loss,  have  I  means  much  weaker 
Than  you  may  call  to  comfort  you ;  for  I 
Have  lost  my  daughter. 

A  Ion.  A  daughter  ? 

0  heavens  !  that  they  were  living  both  in  Naples, 
The  king  and  queen  there  !  that  they  were,  I  wis1! 
Myself  wei  <?  mudded  in  that  oozy  bed 

Where  my  son  lies.     When  did  you  lose  your  daughter  1 

Pro.  In  this  last  tempest.     I  perceive,  these  lords 
At  this  encounter  do  so  much  admire, 
That  they  devour  their  reason  ;  and  scarce  think 
Their  eyes  do  offices  of  truth,  their  words 
Are  natural  breath  :  but,  howsoe'er  you  have 
Been  jostled  from  your  senses,  know  for  certain, 
That  I  am  Prospero,  and  that  very  duke 
Which  was  thrust  forth  of  Milan  ;  who  most  strangery, 
Upon  this  shore,  where  you  were  wreck'd,  was  landed, 
To  be  the  lord  on't.     No  more  yet  of  this ; 
For  'tis  a  chronicle  of  day  by  day, 
Not  a  relation  for  a  breakfast,  nor 
Befitting  this  first  meeting.     Welcome,  sir ; 
This  cell's  my  court :  here  have  I  few  attendants, 
And  subjects  none  abroad :  pray  you,  look  in. 
My  dukedom  since  you  have  given  me  again, 

1  will  requite  you  with  as  good  a  thing ; 

At  least  bring  forth  a  wonder,  to  content  ye, 
As  much  as  me  my  dukedom. 

TJie  entrance  of  the  Cell  opens,  and  discovers  FERDINAND  and  MIRANDA, 
playing  at  chess. 

Mira.  Sweet  lord,  you  play  me  false. 

Fer.  No,  my  dearest  love, 

I  would  not  for  the  world. 

Mira.  Yes,  for  a  score  of  kingdoms  you  should  wrangle, 
And  I  would  call  it  fair  play. 

Alon.  If  this  prove 

A  vision  of  this  island,  one  dear  son 
Shall  I  twice  lose. 

Seb.  A  most  high  miracle  ! 

Fer.  Though  the  seas  threaten,  they  are  merciful : 
I  have  curs'd  them  without  cause.  [FEED,  kneels  to  ALOH 

Alon.  Now  all  the  blessings 

Of  a  glad  father  compass  thee  about ! 
Arise,  and  say  how  thou  cam'st  here. 

Mira.  O  !  wonder ! 

How  many  goodly  creatures  are  there  here ! 
How  beauteous  mankind  is  !  O  brave  new  world, 
That  has  such  people  in't ! 


THE    TEMPEST.  199 

Pro.  'Tis  new  to  thee. 

Alan.  What  is  this  maid,  with  whom  thou  wast  at  play  ? 
Your  eld'st  acquaintance  cannot  be  three  hours : 
Is  she  the  goddess  that  hath  sever'd  us, 
And  brought  us  thus  together  ? 

Fer.  Sir,  she's  mortal ; 

But,  by  immortal  providence,  she's  mine  ; 
I  chose  her,  when  I  could  not  ask  my  father 
For  his  advice  ;  nor  thought  I  had  one :  she 
Is  daughter  to  this  famous  Duke  of  Milan. 
Of  whom  so  often  I  have  heard  renown, 
But  never  saw  before  ;  of  whom  I  have 
Received  a  second  life,  and  second  father 
This  lady  makes  him  to  me. 

Alon.  I  am  hers : 

But  O,  how  oddly  will  it  sound,  that  I 
Must  ask  my  child  forgiveness  ! 

Pro.  There,  sir,  stop  ; 

Let  us  not  burden  our  remembrances 
With  a  heaviness  that's  gone. 

Gon.  I  have  inly  wept, 

Or  should  have  spoke  ere  this.     Look  down,  you  gods, 
And  on  this  couple  drop  a  blessed  crown ; 
For  it  is  you,  that  have  chalk'd  forth  the  way 
Which  brought  us  hither ! 

Alon.  I  say,  Amen,  Gonzalo  ! 

Give  me  your  hands :  [To  FER.  and  Mm* 

Let  grief  and  sorrow  still  embrace  his  heart, 
That  doth  not  wish  you  joy  ! 

Gon.  Be't  so !  Amen  ! 

Re-enter  ARIEL,  with  the  Master  and  Boatswain  amazedly  following. 

0  look,  sir,  look,  sir ;  here  are  more  of  us ! 

1  prophesied,  if  a  gallows  were  on  land, 

This  fellow  could  not  drown  :  Now,  blasphemy  5 
Hast  thou  no  mouth  by  land  ?     What  is  the  news  ? 

Boats.  The  best  news  is,  that  we  have  safely  found 
Our  king,  and  company ;  the  next  our  ship, — 
Which,  but  three  glasses  since,  we  gave  out  split,— 
Is  tight,  and  yare,  and  bravely  rigg'd,  as  when 
We  first  put  out  to  sea. 

Ari.  Sir,  all  this  service     } 

Have  I  done  since  I  went.  /•  [.Aside, 

Pro.  My  tricksy  spirit !  ) 

Alon.  These  are  not  natural  events  ;  they  strengthen, 
From  strange  to  stranger : — Say,  how  came  you  hither  ? 

Boats.  If  I  did  think,  sir,  I  were  well  awake, 
I'd  strive  to  tell  you.  We  were  dead  of  sleep, 
And  (how,  we  knov  not)  all  clapp'd  under  hatches, 


200  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Where,  but  even  now,  with  strange  and  several  noises 

Of  roaring,  shrieking,  howling,  gingling  chains, 

And  more  diversity  of  sounds  ail  horrible, 

We  were  awak'd ;  straightway,  at  liberty : 

Where  we,  in  all  her  trim,  freshly  beheld 

Our  royal,  good,  and  gallant  ship ;  our  master 

Capering  to  eye  her :  On  a  trice,  so  please  you, 

Even  in  a  dream,  we  were  divided  from  them, 

And  were  brought  moping  hither. 

Ari.  Was't  well  done  ?  \  [A  'b 

Pro.  Bravely,  my  diligence.     Thou  shalt  be  free.  $ 
Alon.  This  is  as  strange  a  maze  as  e'er  men  trod : 

And  there  is  in  this  business  more  than  nature 

Was  ever  conduct  of:  some  oracle 

Must  rectify  our  knowledge. 

Pro.  Sir,  my  liege, 

Do  not  infest  your  mind  with  beating  on 

The  strangeness  of  this  business  :  at  pick'd  leisure, 

Which  shall  be  shortly,  single  I'll  resolve  you 

(Which  to  yo:i  shall  seem  probable),  of  every 

These  happen'd  accidents  ;  till  when,  be  cheerful, 

And  think  of  each  thing  well. — Come  hither,  spirit ;  [Aside- 

Set  Caliban  and  his  companions  free  : 

Untie  the  spell. [Exit  ARIEL. 

Sir,  I  invite  your  highness,  and  your  train, 

To  my  poor  cell :  where  you  shall  take  your  rest 

For  this  one  night ;  which  (part  of  it)  I'll  waste 

With  such  discourse,  as,  I  not  doubt,  shall  make  it 

Go  quick  away :  the  story  of  my  life, 

And  the  particular  accidents,  gone  by, 

Since  I  came  to  this  isle  :  And  in  the  morn 

I'll  bring  you  to  your  ship,  and  so  to  Naples, 

Where  I  have  hope  to  see  the  nuptial 

Of  these  our  dear-beloved  solemniz'd  ; 

And  thence  retire  me  to  my  Milan,  where 

Every  third  thought  shall  be  my  grave. 

Alon.  I  long 

To  hear  the  story  of  your  life,  which  must 

Take  the  ear  strangely. 

Pro.  I'll  deliver  all ; 

And  promise  you  calm  seas,  auspicious  gales, 

And  sail  so  expeditious,  that  shall  catch 

Your  royal  fleet  far  off. — My  Ariel ; — chick,-— 

That  is  thy  charge ;  then  to  the  elements 

Be  free,  and  fare  thou  well ! — 

'  Exeunt. 


ROMEO   AND  JULIET. 


The  story  of  Romeo  and  Juliet  is  considered  to  be  historically  true  ;  the  Veronese  fU 
the  date  of  this  tragedy  as  1303. 

"  The  history  of  the  fair  Capulet  and  her  loved  Montague,"  furnished  themes  for 
novelists,  and  had  inspired  the  muse  of  the  Poets,  previous  to  Shakspea:e's  time :  I!« 
has  availed  himself  of  these  labors  to  construct  his  exquisite  Drama;  the  inimitable  cha- 
racter of  Mercutio,  however,  is  an  entirely  original  creation  of  the  Dramatist. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 

ESCALUS,  Prince  of  Verona. 

PARIS,  a  young  nobleman,  kinsman  to  the  Prince. 

I   ONTAGUE,  >  ^efljs  of  two  houses,  at  variance  with  each  other. 

An  old  man,  uncle  to  Capulet. 

ROMEO,  son  to  Montague. 

MERCUTIO,  kinsman  to  the  Prince,  and  friend  to  Romeo. 

BENVOLIO,  nephew  to  Montague,  and  friend  to  Romeo. 

TYBALT,  nephew  to  Lady  Capulet. 

Friar  LAURENCE,  a  Franciscan. 

Friar  JOHN,  of  the  same  order. 

BALTHAZAR,  servant  to  Romeo. 

SAMPSON,  GREGORY,  servants  to  Capulet. 

ABRAM,  servant  to  Montague^ 

An  Apothecary.     Three  Musicians. 

Chorus.     Boy.     Page  to  Paris. 

PETER.     An  Officer. 

Lady  MONTAGUE,  wife  to  Montague. 
Lady  CAPULET,  wife  to  Capulet. 
JULIET,  daughter  to  Capulet. 
Nurse  to  Juliet. 

Citizens  of  Verona  ;  several  Men  and  Women,  relations  to  both  houses 
Maskers,  Guards,  Watchmen,  and  Attendants. 

SCENE, — during  the  greater  part  of  the  Play,  in  VERONA  ;  once,  in  tht 
Fifth  Act,  at  MANTUA. 
10* 


/\ 


202  SHAKSPEAKIAN    READER. 

The  rival  Houses  of  Capulet  and  Montague  were  two  of  the  most  distinguisned  Faml 
lies  in  Verona:  An  "  ancient  grudge"  existed  between  these  Houses,  and  "  civil  brawls' 
were  constantly  occurring  between  them,  in  which  the  connections  and  retainers  of  th< 
opposing  heads  took  part.  The  Play  opens  with  one  of  these  outbreaks :  In  the  midst 
of  the  fray,  the  Prince  of  Verona  appears,  separates  the  combatants,  and  declares  to  Ca 
nulet  and  Montague — 

"  If  ever  yon  disturb  our  streets  again, 
Your  lives  shall  pay  the  forfeit  of  the  peace." 

Montague  and  his  kinsman  Bcnvolio  discourse  on  the  late  fray.     Rom«o  joins  them. 

ACT  I. 

SCENE  I. 
Enter  MONTAGUE,  lady  MONTAGUE,  and  BENVOLIO. 

Man.  Who  set  this  ancient  quarrel  now  abroach  ? — 
Speak,  nephew,  were  you  by,  when  it  began  ? 

Ben.  Here  were  the  servants  of  your  adversary, 
And  yours,  close  fighting  ere  I  did  approach  : 
I  drew  to  part  them  ;  in  the  instant  came 
The  fiery  Tybalt,  with  his  sword  prepar'd ; 
Which,  as  he  breath'd  defiance  to  my  ears, 
He  swung  about  his  head,  and  cut  the  winds : 
While  we  were  interchanging  thrusts  and  blows, 
Came  more  and  more,  and  fought  on  part  and  part, 
Till  the  prince  came,  who  parted  either  part. 

La.  Mon.  O,  where  is  Romeo  ! — saw  you  him  to-day 
Right  glad  I  am,  he  was  not  at  this  fray. 

Ben.  Madam,  an  hour  before  the  worshipp'd  sun 
Peer'd  forth  the  golden  window  of  the  east, 
A  troubled  mind  drave  me  to  walk  abroad  ; 

; Where, — underneath  the  grqye^  of  sycamore, 
That  westwarij^algthJjrom  the  city's  side, — 
So  early  walking  did  I  see  your  son  : 
Towards  him  I  made  ;  but  he  was  'ware  of  me, 
And  stole  into  the  covert  of  the  wood : 
I,  measuring  his  affections  by  my  own, — 
That  most  are  busied  when  they  are  most  alone, — 
Pursu'd  my  humor,  not  pursuing  his, 
And  gladly  shunn'd  who  gladly  fled  from  me. 

Mon.  Many  a  morning  hath  he  there  been  seen, 
With  tears  augmenting  the  fresh  morning's  dew. 
Adding  to  cloujlsjnore  clouds  with  his  deep  sighs  : 
But  all  so  soon  as  the  all-cheering  sun 
Should  in  the  further  east  begin  to  draw 
The  shady  curtains  from  Aurora's  bed, 
Away  frqmjight  steals  home  my  heavy  son, 
And  private"lnms  chamber  pens  himself; 
Shuts  up  his  windows,  locks  fair  daylight  out, 


ROMEO    AND   JULIET.  203 

And  makes  himself  an  artificial  night : 
Black  and  poitentous  must  this  humor  prove, 
Unless  good  counsel  may  the  cause  remove. 

Ben.  My  noble  uncle,  do  you  know  the  cause  ? 

Man.  I  neither  know  it,  nor  can  learn  of  him. 

Ben.  Have  you  importun'd  him  by  any  means  'f 

Mon.  Both  by  myself,  and  many  other  friends  ; 
But  he,  his  own  affections'  counsellor. 
Is  to  himself— I  will  not  say,  how  true — 
But  to  himself  so  secret  and  so  close, 
So  far  from  sounding  and  discovery, 
As  is  the  bud  bit  with  an  envious  worm, 
Ere  he  can  spread  his  sweet  leaves  to  the  air, 
Or  dedicate  his  beauty  to  the  sun. 
Could  we  but  learn  from  whence  his  sorrows  grow, 
We  would  as  willingly  give  cure,  as  know. 

Enter  ROMEO,  at  a  distance. 

Ben.  See,  where  he  comes  :  So  please  you,  step  aside ; 
I'll  know  his  grievance,  or  be  much  denied. 

Mon.  I  would,  thou  wert  so  happy  by  thy  stay, 
To  hear  true  shrift. — Come,  madam,  let's  away. 

[Exeunt  MONTAGUE,  and  Lady 

Ben.  Good  morrow,  cousin. 

Rom.  Is  the  day  so  young  ? 

Ben.  But  new  struck  nine. 

Rom.  Ah  me  !  sad  hours  seem  long. 

Was  that  my  father  that  went  hence  so  fast  ? 

Ben.  It  was  : — What  sadness  lengthens  Romeo's  hours  ? 

Rom.  Not  having  that,  which,  having,  makes  them  short. 

Ben.  In  love  ;  meseems  ! 
Alas,  that  love,  so  gentle  in  his  view, 
Should  be  so  tyrannous  and  rough  in  proof ! 

Rom.  Alas,  that  love,  whose  view  is  muffled  still., 
Should,  without  eyes,  see  pathways  to  his  will ! 
Where  shall  we  dine  ? — O  me  ! — What  fray  was  here  ? 
Yet  tell  me  not,  for  I  have  heard  it  all. 
Here's  muA  to  do  with  hate,  but  more  with  love : — 
O  heavy  lightness  !  serious  vanity  ! 
Mis-shapen  chaos  of  well-seeming  forms  ! 
This  love  feel  I,  that  feel  no  love  in  this. 
Dost  thou  not  laugh  ? 

Ben.  No,  coz,  I  rather  weep. 

Rom.  Good  heart,  at  what  ? 

Ben.  At  thy  good  heart's  oppression. 

Rom.  Why,  such  is  love's  transgression. — 
Griefs  of  mine  own  lie  heavy  in  my  breast ; 
Which  thou  wilt  propagate,  to  have  it  prest 
With  more  of  thine  :  this  love,  that  thou  hast  shown, 
Poth  add  more  grief  to  too  much  of  mine  own. 


204  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

l,ove  is  a  smoke  rais'd  with  the  fume  of  sighs  ; 
•Being  purg'd,  a  fire  sparkling  in  lovers'  eyes  ; 
Being  vex'd,  a  sea  nourish'd  with  lovers'  tears  : 
What  is  it  else  ?  a  madness  most  discreet, 
A  choking  gall,  and  a  preserving  sweet. 
Farewell,  my  coz; 

Ben.  Soft,  I  will  go  along ; 

An  if  you  leave  me  so,  you  do  me  wrong. 

Rom.  Tut,  I  have  lost  myself ;  I  am  not  here  ; 
This  is  not  Romeo,  he's  some  other  where. 

Ben.  Tell  me  in  sadness,  who  she  is  you  love. 

Rom.  In  sadness,  cousin,  I  do  love  a  woman. 

Ben.  I  aim'd  so  near,  when  I  suppos'd  you  lov'd. 

Rom.  A  right  good  marksman  ! — And  she's  fair  I  iove. 

Ben.  A  right  fair  mark,  fair  coz,  is  soonest  hit. 

Rom.  Well,  in  that  hit,  you  miss  :  she'll  not  be  hit 
With  Cupid's  arrow.     She  hath  Dian's  wit ; 
And,  in  strong  proof  of  chastity  well  arm'd, 
From  love's  weak  childish  bow  she  lives  unharm'd. 
She  will  not  stay  the  siege  of  loving  terms, 
Nor  bide  the  encounter  of  assailing  eyes, 
Nor  ope  her  lap  to  saint-seducing  gold : 
O  !  she  is  rich  in  beauty  ;  only  poor, 
That  when  she  dies,  with  beauty  dies  her  store. 
She  is  too  fair,  too  wise  ;  wisely  too  fair, 
To  merit  bliss  by  making  me  despair  : 
She  hath  forsworn  to  love  ;  and,  in  that  vow, 
Do  I  live  dead,  that  live  to  tell  it  now. 

Ben.  Be  rul'd  by  me,  forget  to  think  of  her. 

Rom.  O  teach  me  how  I  should  forget  to  think. 

Ben.  By  giving  liberty  unto  thine  eyes  ; 
Examine  other  beauties. 

Rom.  'Tis  the  way 

To  call  hers,  exquisite,  in  question  more  : 
These  happy  masks,  that  kiss  fair  ladies'  brows, 
Being  black,  put  us  in  mind  they  hide  the  fair ; 
He,  that  is  stricken  blind,  cannot  forget 
The  precious  treasure  of  his  eyesight  lost : 
Show  me  a  mistress  that  is  passing  fair, 
What  doth  her  beauty  serve,  but  as  a  note 
Where  I  may  read,  who  pass'd  that  passing  fair  ? 
Farewell ;  thou  canst  not  teach  me  to  forget. 

Ben.  I'll  pay  that  doctrine,  or  else  die  in  debt.  \Exevm 

The  "  County  Paris  "  loves  the  lady  Juliet,  anu  receives  her  father's  permission  to  pre 
fer  his  suit. — Capulet  gives  an  entertainment,  to  which  he  invites  young  Paris :  At  thi 
feast  the  fair  Rosaline  is  also  to  be  a  guest,  and  Romeo  is  persuaded  by  his  ocusii 
•ienvolio,  to  attend,  that  he  may — 

'•  Compare  her  face  with  some  that  I  shall  show, 
And  I  will  make  thee  think  thy  swan  ac'ov/." 


ROMEO    AND   JULIET. 


205 


SCENE  IIL— A  Room  in  Capulet's  House. 

Enter  Ladij  CAPULET,  and  Nurse. 

La.  Cap.  N  arse,  where's  my  daughter  ?  call  her  forth  to  me* 

Nurse.  Now,  by  my  faith, — at  twelve  year  old. 
I  bade  her  come. — What,  lamb !  what,  lady-bird  i 
Heaven  forbid  !  where's  this  girl  ? — what  Juliet ! 

Enter  JULIET 

Jul.  How  now,  who  calls  ? 

Nurse.  Your  mother. 

Jul.  Madam,  I  am  her* 

What  is  your  will  ? 

La.  Cap.  This  is  the  matter : — Nurse,  give  leave  awhile, 
We  must  talk  in  secret. — Nurse,  come  back  again  ; 
I  have  remember 'd  me,  thou  shalt  hear  our  counsel. 
Thou  know'st,  my  daughter's  of  a  pretty  age. 

Nurse.  'Faith,  I  can  tell  her  age  unto  an  hour. 

La.  Cap.  She's  not  fourteen. 

Nurse.  I'll  lay  fourteen  of  my  teeth, 

And  yet,  to  my  teen  be  it  spoken,  I  have  but  four, — 
She  is  not  fourteen. — How  long  is  it  now 
To  Lammas-tide  ? 

La.  Cap.  A  fortnight,  and  odd  days. 

Nurse.  Even  or  odd,  of  all  days  in  the  year, 
Come  Lammas-eve  at  night,  shall  she  be  eighteen. 
Heaven  mark  thee  to  its  grace  ! 
Thou  wast  the  prettiest  babe  that  e'er  I  nurs'd. 
An  I  might  live  to  see  thee  married  once, 
I  have  rny  wish. 

La.  Cap.  Marry,  that  marry  is  the  very  theme 
I  came  to  talk  of: — Tell  me,  daughter  Juliet, 
How  stands  your  disposiaon  to  be  married  ? 

Jul.  It  is  an  honor  that  I  dream  not  of. 

La.  Cap.  Well,  think  of  marriage  now. 
Thus  then,  in  brief, — 
The  valiant  Paris  seeks  you  for  his  love. 

Nurse    A  man,  young  lady  !  lady,  such  a  man, 
As  all  the  world — Why,  he's  a  man  of  wax. 

La.  Cap.  Verona's  summer  hath  not  such  a  flower. 

Nurse.  Nay,  he's  a  flower ;  in  faith,  a  very  flower. 

La.  Cap.  What  say  you  ?  can  you  love  the  gentleman  f 
This  night  you  shall  behold  him  at  our  feast : 
Speak  briefly,  can  you  like  of  Paris'  love  ? 

Jul.  I'll  look  to  like,  if  looking  liking  move : 
But  no  more  deep  w.ll  I  endart  mine  eye, 
Than  your  consent  gives  strength  to  make  it.  fly. 


206  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Serv.  Madam,  the  guests  are  come,  supper  served  up,  you  called, 
my  young  lady  asked  for,  the  nurse  wanted  in  the  pantry,  and  every 
thing  in  extremity.  I  must  hence  to  wait ;  I  beseech  you,  follow 
straight. 

La.  Cap.  We  follow  thee. — Juliet,  the  county  stays.       [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.— A  Street. 

Enter  ROMEO,  MERCUTIO,  BENVOLIO,  with  Five  or   Six  Maskers 
Torch-bearers,  and  others. 

.Rom.  What,  shall  this  speech  be  spoke  for  our  excuse  ? 
Or  shall  we  on  without  apology  ? 

Ben.  The  date  is  out  of  such  prolixity  : 
We'll  have  no  Cupid  hood-wink'd  with  a  scarf, 
Bearing  a  Tartar's  painted  bow  of  lath, 
Scaring  the  ladies  like  a  crow-keeper  ; 
Nor  no  without-book  prologue,  faintly  spoke 
After  the  prompter,  for  our  entrance  : 
But  let  them  measure  us  by  what  they  will, 
We'll  measure  them  a  measure,  and  be  gone. 

Rom.  Give  me  a  torch, — I  am  not  for  this  ambling ; 
Being  but  heavy,  I  will  bear  the  light. 

•Mer.  Nay,  gentle  Romeo,  we  must  have  you  dance. 
•  Rom.  Not  1,  believe  me  :  you  have  dancing  shoes, 
With  nimble  soles  :  I  have  a  soul  of  lead, 
So  stakes  me  to  the  ground,  I  cannot  move. 

Mer.  You  are  a  lover ;  borrow  Cupid's  wings, 
And  soar  with  them  above  a  common  bound. 

Rom.  I  am  too  sore  enpierced  with  his  shaft, 
To  soar  with  his  light  feathers  ;  and  so  bound, 
I  cannot  bound  a  pitch  above  dull  woe  : 
Under  love's  heavy  burden  do  I  sink. 

Mer.  And,  to  sink  in  it,  should  you  burden  love  ; 
Too  great  oppression  for  a  tender  thing. 

Rom.  Is  love  a  tender  thing  ?  it  is  too  rough, 
Too  rude,  too  boist'rous. 

Mer.  If  love  be  rough  with  you,  be  rough  with  love ; 
Give  me  a  case  to  put  my  visage  in :  [Putting  on  a  mask 

A  visor  for  a  visor ! — what  care  I, 
What  curious  eye  doth  quote  deformities  ? 
Here  are  the  beetle-brows,  shall  blush  for  me. 

Ben,  Come,  knock,  and  enter ;  and  no  sooner  in, 
But  every  man  betake  him  to  his  legs. 

Rom.  A  torch  for  me :  let  wantons,  light  of  heart. 
Tickle  the  senseless  rushes  with  their  heels ; 
For  I  am  proverb'd  with  a  grandsire  phrase, — 
I'll  be  a  candle-holder,  and  look  on. 
But  'tis  no  wit  to  go. 


ROMEO    AND    JULIET.  207 

s  Mer.  Why,  may  one  ask  ? 

Rom.  I  dreamt  a  dream  tonight. 
;Mer.  O,  then,  I  see,  queen  Mab  hath  been  with  you. 
yShe  is  the  fairies'  midwife  ;  and  she  comes 
In  shape  no  bigger  than  an  agate-stone 

On  ihe  fore-finger  of  an  alderman,  //£/&&)  ~4/f 

Drawn  with  a  team  of  little  atomies 
Athwart  men's  noses  as  fhey  lie  asleep  : 
Her  wagon-spokes  made  of  long  spinners'  legs, 
The  cover,  of  the  wings  of  grasshoppers  ; 
The  traces,  of  the  smallest  spider's  web ; 
The  collars,  of  the  moonshine's  wat'ry  beams : 
Her  whip,  of  cricket's  bone  ;  the  lash,  of  film ; 
Her  wagoner,  a  small  gray-coated  gnat, 
Not  half  so  big  as  a  round  little  worm 
Prick'd  from  the  lazy  finger  of  a  maid  : 
Her  chariot  is  an  empty  hazel-nut, 
Made  by  the  joiner  squirrel,  or  old  grub, 
Time  out  of  mind  the  fairies'  coach-makers. 
And  in  this  state  she  gallops  night  by  night 
Through  lovers'  brains,  and  then  they  dream  of  love ; 
On  courtiers'  knees,  that  dream  on  court'sies  straight : 
O'er  lawyers'  fingers,  who  straight  dream  on  fees  ; 
O'er  ladies'  lips,  who  straight  on  kisses  dream ; 
Sometime  she  gallops  o'er  a  courtier's  nose, 
And  then  dreams  he  of  smelling  out  a  suit : 
And  sometimes  comes  she  with  a  tithe-pig's  tail, 
Tickling  -a  parson's  nose  as  'a  lies  asleep, 
Then  dreams  he  of  another  benefice  : 
Sometime  she  driveth  o'er  a  soldier's  neck, 
And  then  dreams  he  of  cutting  foreign  throats, 
Of  breaches,  arnbuscadoes,  Spanish  blades, 
Of  healths  five  fathom  deep  ;  and  then  anon 
Drums  in  his  ear ;  at  which  he  starts,  and  wakes  ; 
And,  being  thus  frighted,  swears  a  prayer  or  two, 
And  sleeps  again. 

Rom.  Peace,  peace,  Mercutio,  peace ; 

Thou  talk'st  of  nothing. 

Mer.  True,  I  talk  of  dreams  ; 

Which  are  the  children  of  an  idle  brain, 
Begot  of  nothing  but  vain  fantasy  ; 
Which  is  as  thin  of  substance  as  the  air  ; 
And  more  inconstant  than  the  wind,  who  wooes 
Even  now  the  frozen  bosom  of  the  north, 
And,  being  anger'd,  puffs  away  from  thence, 
Turning  his  face  to  the  dew-dropping  south. 

Ben.  This  wind,  you  talk  of,  blows  us  from  ourselves ; 
Supper  is  done,  and  we  shall  come  too  late. 

Rom.  I  fear,  too  ear]y  :  for  my  mind  misgives, 


208  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Some  consequence,  yet  hanging  in  the  stars, 

Shall  bitterly  begin  his  fearful  date 

With  this  night's  revels  ;  and  expire  the  term 

Of  a  despised  life,  clos'd  in  my  breast, 

By  some  vile  forfeit  of  untimely  death  : 

But  He,  that  hath  the  steerage  of  my  course, 

Direct  my  sail  !  —  On,  gentlemen.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  V.—A  Hall  in  Camilet's  House. 
Enter  CAPUXErfcf-cTwS  iheGuoS^and  the  Maskers. 


Cap.  You  are  welcome,  gentlemen  !  I  have  seen  the  day, 
That  I  have  worn  a  visor  ;  and  could  tell 
A  whispering  tale  in  a  fair  lady's  ear, 
Such  as  would  please  ;  —  'tis  gone,  'tis  gone,  'tis  gone  : 
You  are  welcome,  gentlemen  !  —  Come,  musicians,  play. 

[Music  plays,  and  they  dance, 

Horn.  What  lady's  that,  which  doth  enrich  the  hand 
Of  yonder  knight  ? 

Serv.  I  know  not,  sir. 

Rom.  O,  she  doth  teach  the  torches  to  burn  bright  ! 
Her  beauty  hangs  upon  the  cheek  of  night 
Like  a  rich  jewel  in  an  Ethiop's  ear  : 
The  measure  done,  I'll  watch  her  place  of  stand, 
And,  touching  hers,  make  happy  my  rude  hand. 
Did  my  heart  love  till  now  ?  forswear  it,  sight  ! 
For  I  ne'er  saw  true  beauty  till  this  night. 

Tyb.  This,  by  his  voice,  should  be  a  Montague  : 
Fetch  me  my  rapier,  boy  :  —  What  !  dares  the  slave 
Come  hither,  covered  with  an  antic  face, 
To  fleer  and  scorn  at  our  solemnity  ? 
Now,  by  the  stock  and  honor  of  my  kin, 
To  strike  him  dead  I  hold  it  not  a  sin. 

Cap.  Why,  how  now,  kinsman  ?  wherefore  storm  you  so  ? 

Tyb.  Uncle,  this  is  a  Montague,  our  foe  ; 
A  villain,  that  is  hither  come  in  spite, 
To  scorn  at  our  solemnity  this  night. 

Cap.  Young  Romeo  is't  ? 

Tyb.  'Tis  he,  that  villain  Romeo. 

Cap.  Content  thee,  gentle  coz,  let  him  alone, 
He  bears  him  like  a  portly  gentleman  ; 
And,  to  say  truth,  Verona  brags  of  him, 
To  be  a  virtuous  and  well-govern'd  youth  : 
1  would  not  for  the  wealth  of  all  this  town, 
Here  in  my  house  do  him  disparagement  : 
Therefore  be  patient,  take  no  note  of  him, 
J;  is  my  will  ;  the  which  if  thou  respect, 
Show  a  fair  presence,  and  put  off  these  frowns, 
An  ill-beseeming  semblance  for  a  feast. 


ROMEO    AND   JULIET.  209 

Tyb.  It  fits,  when  such  a  villain  is  a  guest ; 
I'll  not  endure  him. 

Cap.  He  shall  be  endur'd  ; 

Am  I  the  master  here,  or  you  ?  go  to. 
Be  quiet,  cousin,  or — I'll  make  you  quiet. 

Tyb.  Patience  perforce  with  wilful  choler  meeting 
Makes  my  flesh  tremble  in  their  different  greeting. 
I  will  withdraw  :  but  this  intrusion  shall, 
Now  seeming  sweet,  convert  to  bitter  gall.  [Exit 

Rom.  If  I  profane  with  my  unworthy  hand  [To  JULIET, 

This  holy  shrine,  the  gentle  fine  is  this, — 

Jul.  Good  pilgrim,  you  do  wrong  your  hand  too  much, 
For  palm  to  palm  is  holy  palmer's  kiss, 

Rom.  Have  not  saints  lips,  and  holy  palmers  too  ? 

Jul.  Ay,  pilgrim,  lips  that,  they  must  use  in  prayer. 

Rom.  Thus,  then,  dear  saint,  let  lips  put  up  their  prayer.       [So* 

Nurse.  Madam,  your  mother  craves  a  word  with  you.    [lutes  her. 

Rom.  What  is  her  mother  ? 

Nurse.  Marry,  bachelor, 

Her  mother  is  the  lady  of  the  house, 
And  a  good  lady,  and  a  wise,  and  virtuous  : 
I  nurs'd  her  daughter,  that  you  talk'd  withal ; 
I  tell  you, — he,  that  can  lay  hold  of  her, 
Shall  have  the  chinks. 

Rom.  Is  she  a  Capulet  ? 

0  dear  account !  my  life  is  my  foe's  debt. 
Ben.  Away,  begone  ;  the  sport  is  at  the  best. 
Rom.  Ay,  so  I  fear ;  the  more  is  my  unrest. 
Cap.  Nay,  gentlemen,  prepare  not  to  be  gone  ; 

We  have  a  trifling  foolish  banquet  towards. 
Is  it  e'en  so  ?     Why,  then  I  thank  you  all ; 

1  thank  you,  honest  gentlemen  ;  good  night: — 

I'll  to  my  rest.  [Exeunt  all  but  JULIET,  and  Nursa 

Jul.  Come  hither,  nurse  ;  What  is  yon  gentleman  ? 

Nurse.  The  son  and  heir  of  old  Tiberio. 

Jul.  What's  he,  that  now  is  going  out  of  door  ? 

Nurse.  Marry,  that,  I  think,  be  young  Petruchio. 

Jul.  What's  he,  that  follows  there,  that  would  not  dance  ? 

Nurse.  I  know  not. 

Jul.  Go,  ask  his  name  : — if  he  be  married, 
My  grave  is  like  to  be  my  wedding  bed. 

Nurse.  His  name  is  Romeo,  and  a  Montague  ; 
The  only  son  of  your  great  enemy. 

Jul.  My  only  love  sprung  from  my  only  hate  I 
Too  early  seen  unknown,  and  known  too  late  ! 

Nurse.  What's  this  ?     What's  this  ? 

Jul.  A  rhyme  I  learn'd  even  now 

Of  one  I  danc'd  withal.  [One  calls  within,  JULIET. 

Nurse.  Anon,  anon : 

Come,  let's  away  :  the  strangers  all  are  cone.  [  Exeunt 


210  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 


ACT  II. 

Romeo,  struck  with  the  beauty  and  character  of  Juliet,  forgets  his  "  Rosaline."  II* 
disengages  himself  from  Mercutio  and  Benvolio,  and  enters  Capulet's  garden,  to  seek 
an  interview  with  JulietX 

SCENE  II.— Capulet's  Garden. 
Enter  ROMEO. 

Rom.  He  jests  at  scars,  that  never  felt  a  wound. — 

[JULIET  appears  above,  at  a  window. 
But,  soft !  what  light  through  yonder  window  breaks  ! 
It  is  the  east,  and  Juliet  is  the  sun  ! — 
Arise,  fair  sun,  and  kill  the  envious  moon, 
Who  is  already  sick  and  pale  with  grief, 
That  thou  her  maid  art  far  more  fair  than  she  : 
She  speaks,  yet  she  says  nothing  ;  What  of  that  ? 
Her  eye  discourses,  1  will  answer  it. — 
I  am  too  bold,  'tis  not  to  me  she  speaks  : 
Two  of  the  fairest  stars  in  all  the  heaven, 
Having  some  business,  do  entreat  her  eyes 
To  twinkle  in  their  spheres  till  they  return. 
What  if  her  eyes  were  there,  they  in  her  head  ? 
The  brightness  of  her  cheek  would  shame  those  stars, 
As  daylight  doth  a  lamp  ;  her  eye  in  heaven 
Would  through  the  airy  region  stream  so  bright, 
That  birds  would  sing,  and  think  it  were  not  night. 
See,  how  she  leans  her  cheek  upon  her  hand  ! 
O,  that  I  were  a  glove  upon  that  hand, 
That  I  might  touch  that  cheek  ! 

JuL  Ah  me ! 

Rom.  She  speaks : 

O,  speak  again,  bright  angel !  for  thou  art 
As  glorious  to  this  night,  being  o'er  my  head, 
As  is  a  winged  messenger  of  heaven 
Unto  the  white-upturned  wond'ring  eyes 
Of  mortals,  that  fall  back  to  gaze  on  him, 
When  he  bestrides  the  lazy  pacing  clouds, 
And  sails  upon  the  bosom  of  the  air. 

JuL  O  Romeo,  Romeo  !  wherefore  art  thou  Romeo  / 
Deny  thy  father,  and  refuse  thy  name  : 
Or,  if  thou  wilt  not,  be  but  sworn  my  love. 
And  I'll  no  longer  be  a  Capulet. 

Rom.  Shall  I  hear  more,  or  shall  I  speak  at  this  ?  [  Aside, 

JuL  'Tie  but  thy  name,  that  is  my  enemy  ; 
What's  in  a  name  ?  that  which  we  call  a  rose, 
By  any  other  name  would  smell  as  sweet ; 
So  Romeo  would,  were  he  not  Romeo  call'd, 


ROMEO   AND   JULIET.  211 

Retain  that  dear  perfection  which  he  owes, 
Without  that  title  : — Romeo,  doff  thy  name ; 
And  for  that  name,  which  is  no  part  of  thee. 
Take  all  myself. 

Rom.  I  take  thee  at  thy  word  : 

Call  me  but  love,  and  I'll  be  new  baptized ; 
Henceforth  I  never  will  be  Romeo. 

JuL  What  man  art  thou,  that,  thus  bescreen'd  in  night, 
So  stumblfcst  on  my  counsel  ? 

Rom.  By  a  name 

I  know  not  how  to  tell  thee  who  I  am  : 
My  name,  dear  saint,  is  hateful  to  myself, 
Because  it  is  an  enemy  to  thee. 

JuL  My  ears  have  not  yet  drunk  a  hundred  words 
Of  that  tongue's  utterance,  yet  I  know  the  sound ; 
Art  thou  not  Romeo,  and  a  Montague  ? 

Rom.  Neither,  fair  saint,  if  either  thee  dislike. 

Jul.  How  cam'st  thou  hither,  tell  me  ?  and  wherefore  ? 
The  orchard  walls  are  high,  and  hard  to  climb ; 
And  the  place  death,  considering  who  thou  art, 
If  any  of  my  kinsmen  find  thee  here. 

Rom.  With  love's  light  wings  did  I  o'er-perch  these  walls. 
For  stony  limits  cannot  hold  love  out ; 
And  what  love  can  do,  that  dares  love  attempt ; 
Therefore  thy  kinsmen  are  no  let  to  me. 

Jul.  If  they  do  see  thee,  they  will  murder  thee. 

Rom.  Alack  !  there  lies  more  peril  in  thine  eye, 
Than  twenty  of  their  swords  ;  look  thou  but  sweet, 
And  I  am  proof  against  their  enmity. 

Jul.  I  would  not  for  the  world  they  saw  thee  here : 
By  whose  direction  found'st  thou  out  this  place  ? 

Rom.  By  love,  who  first  did  prompt  me  to  inquire ; 
He  lent  me  counsel,  and  I  lent  him  eyes. 
I  am  no  pilot ;  yet,  wert  thou  as  far 
As  that  vast  shore  wash'd  with  the  furthest  sea, 
I  would  adventure  for  such  merchandise. 

Jul.  Thou  know'st,  the  mask  of  night  is  on  my  facfl  j 
Else  would  a  maiden  blush  bepaint  my  cheek, 
For  that  which  thou  hast  heard  me  speak  to-night. 
Fain  would  I  dwell  on  form,  fain,  fain  deny 
What  I  have  spoke ;  But  farewell  compliment ! 
Dost  thou  love  me  ?     I  know,  thou  wilt  say — Ay ; 
And  I  will  take  thy  word :  yet,  if  thou  swear'st, 
Thou  may'st  prove  false ;  at  lovers'  perjuries, 
They  say,  Jove  laughs.     O,  gentle  Romeo, 
If  thou  dost  love,  pronounce  it  faithfully : 
Or  if  thou  think'st  I  am  too  quickly  won, 
['11  frown  and  be  perverse,  awl  say  thee  ray. 
So  thou  wilt  woo ;  but,  else,  not  for  the  world. 


21'<J  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

In  truth,  fair  Montague,  I  am  too  fond ; 
And  therefore  thou  may'st  think  my'havior  light: 
But  trust  me,  gentleman,  I'll  prove  more  true 
Than  those  that  have  more  cunning  to  be  strange. 
I  should  have  been  more  strange,  I  must  confess, 
But  that  thou  over-heard'st,  ere  I  was 'ware, 
My  true  love's  passion :  therefore  pardon  me  ; 
And  not  impute  this  yielding  to  light  love, 
Which  the  dark  night  hath  so  discovered. 
-  Rom.  Lady,  by  yonder  blessed  moon  I  swear, 
That  tips  with  silver  all  these  fruit-tree  tops, — 

Jul.  O,  swear  not  by  the  moon,  the  inconstant  moon, 
That  monthly  changes  in  her  circled  orb, 
Lest  that  thy  love  prove  likewise  variable. 

Rom.  What  shall  I  swear  by  ? 

Jul.  Do  not  swear  at  all }. 

Or,  if  thou  wilt,  swear  by  thy  gracious  self, 
Which  is  the  god  of  my  idolatry, 
And  I'll  believe  thee. 

Rom.  If  my  heart's  dear  love — 

Jul.  Well,  do  not  swear :  although  I  joy  in  thee, 
I. have  no  joy  in  this  contract  to-night : 
It  is  too  rash,  too  unadvis'd,  too  sudden  ; 
Too  like  the  lightning,  which  doth  cease  to  be, 
Ere  one  can  say — It  lightens.     Sweet,  good  night ! 
This  bud  of  love,  by  summer's  ripening  breath, 
May  prove  a  beauteous  flower  when  next  we  meet. 
Good  night,  good  night !  as  sweet  repose  and  rest 
Come  to  thy  heart,  as  that  within  my  breast ! 

Rom.  O,  wilt  thou  leave  me  so  unsatisfied  ? 

Jul.  What  satisfaction  canst  thou  have  to-night  ? 

Rom.  The  exchange  of  thy  love's  faithful  vow  for  mine. 

Jul.  I  gave  thee  mine  before  thou  didst  request  it : 
And  yet  I  would  it  were  to  give  again. 

Rom.  Wouldst  thou  withdraw  it  ?  for  what  purpose,  love  ? 

Jul.  But  to  be  frank  and  give  it  thee  again. 
And  yet  I  wish  but  for  the  thing  I  have  : 
My  bounty  is  as  boundless  as  the  sea, 
My  love  as  deep ;  the  more  I  give  to  thee, 

The  more  I  have,  for  both  are  infinite.  [Nurse  calls  within 

I  hear  some  noise  within ;  Dear  love,  adieu  ! 
Anon,  good  nurse  ? — Sweet  Montague,  be  true. 
Stay,  but  a  little,  I  will  come  again.  [Exit 

Rom.  O  blessed,  blessed  night !  I  am  afeard, 
Being  in  night,  all  this  is  but  a  dream, 
Too  flattering-sweet  to  be  substantial. 

Re-enter  JULIET,  above. 

Jul.  Three  words,  dear  Romeo,  and  good  night,  indeed, 
If  that  thv  bent  of  love  be  honorable 


ROMEO   AND   JULIET.  2]3 

Thy  purpose  marriage,  send  me  word  to-morrow, 

By  one  that  I'll  procure  to  come  to  thee, 

Where,  and  what  time  thou  wilt  perform  the  rite ; 

And  all  my  fortunes  at  thy  foot  I'll  lay, 

And  follow  thee  my  lord  throughout  the  world. 

Nurse.  [Within.]  Madam. 

Jul.  I  come,  anon  : — But  if  thou  mean'st  not  well, — 
I  do  beseech  thee, — 

Nurse.  [Within.]  Madam. 

Jul.  By  and  by,  I  come  : — 

To  cease  thy  suit,  and  leave  me  to  my  grief; 
To-morrow  will  I  send. 

Rom.  So  thrive  my  soul, — 

Jul.  A  thousand  times  good  night !  [Exi* 

Rom.  A  thousand  times  the  worse,  to  want  thy  light,— 
Love  goes  toward  love,  as  schoolboys  from  their  books ; 
But  love  from  love,  toward  school  with  heavy  looks. 

[Retiring  ilowly. 

Re-enter  JULIET,  above. 

Jul.  Hist !  Romeo,  hist ! — O,  for  a  falconer's  voice, 
To  lure  this  tassel-gentle  back  again  ! 
Bondage  is  hoarse,  and  may  not  speak  aloud ; 
Else  would  I  tear  the  cave  where  echo  lies, 
And  make  her  airy  tongue  more  hoarse  than  mine 
With  repetition  of  my  Romeo's  name. 

Rom.  It  is  my  soul  that  calls  upon  my  name : 
How  silver-sweet  sound  lovers'  tongues  by  night, 
Like  softest  music  to  attending  ears  ! 

Jul.  Romeo ! 

Rom.  My  sweet ! 

Jul.  At  what  o'clock  to-morrow 

Shall  I  send  to  thee  ? 

Rom.  At  the  hour  of  nine. 

Jul.  I  will  not  fail ;  'tis  twenty  years  till  then. 
I  have  forgot  why  I  did  call  thee  back. 

Rom.  Let  me  stand  here  till  thou  remember  it. 

Jul.  I  shah  forget  to  have  thee  still  stand  there, 
Rememb'ring  how  I  love  thy  company. 

Rom.  And  I'll  still  stay,  to  have  thee  still  forget, 
Forgetting  any  other  home  but  this. 

Jul.  'Tis  almost  morning,  I  would  have  thee  gone : 
And  yet  no  further  than  a  wanton's  bird  ; 
Who  lets  it  hop  a  little  from  her  hand, 
Like  a  poor  prisoner  in  his  twisted  gyves, 
And  with  a  silk  thread  plucks  it  back  again 
So  loving-jealous  of  his  liberty. 

Rom.  I  would,  I  were  thy  bird. 

Jul.  Sweet,  so  would  I : 


214  SHAKSPEARIAN    READEK. 

Yet  I  should  kill  thee  with  much  cherishing. 

Good  night,  good  night !  parting  is  such  sweet  sorrow, 

That  I  shall  say — good  night,  till  it  be  morrow.  [  Exit 

Rom.  Sleep  dwell  upon  thine  eyes,  peace  in  thy  breast ! — 
'Would  I  were  sleep  and  peace,  so  sweet  to  rest ! 
Hence  will  I  to  my  ghostly  father's  cell ; 
His  help  to  crave,  and  my  dear  hap  to  tell.  [  Exit 

SCENE  III.— Friar  Laurence's  Cell. 
Enter  Friar  LAURENCE,  ivith  a  basket. 

Fri.  .The  gray-ey'd  morn  smiles  on  the  frowning  night, 
Checkering  the  eastern  clouds  with  streaks  of  light : 
Now  ere  the  sun  advance  his  burning  eye, 
The  day  to  cheer,  and  night's  dank  dew  to  dry, 
I  must  up-fill  this  osier  cage  of  ours, 
With  baleful  weeds,  and  precious-juiced  flowers. 
O,  mickle  is  the  powerful  grace,  that  lies 
Tn  herbs,  plants,  stones,  and  their  true  qualities  : 
For  nought  so  vile  that  on  the  earth  doth  live, 
But  to  the  earth  some  special  good  doth  give ; 
Nor  aught  so  good,  but,  strain'd  from  that  fair  use, 
Revolts  from  true  birth,  stumbling  on  abuse  : 
Virtue  itself  turns  vice,  being  misapplied  ; 
And  vice  sometime's  by  action  dignified. 
Within  the  infant  rind  of  this  small  flower 
Poison  hath  residence,  and  med'cine  power  : 
For  this,  being  smelt,  with  that  part  cheers  each  part ; 
Being  tasted,  slays  all  senses  with  the  heart. 
Two  such  opposed  foes  encamp  them  still 
In  man  as  well  as  herbs,  grace,  and  rude  will : 
And,  where  the  worser  is  predominant, 
Full  soon  the  canker  death  eats  up  that  plr.-at. 

Enter  ROMEO. 

Rom.  Good  morrow,  father ! 

Fri.  Benedicite ! 

What  early  tongue  so  sweet  saluteth  me  ? — 
Young  son,  it  argues  a  distemper'd  head, 
So  soon  to  bid  good  morrow  to  thy  bed  : 
Care  keeps  his  watch  in  every  old  man's  eye, 
And  where  care  lodges,  sleep  will  never  lie ; 
But  where  unbruised  youth  with  unstuff'd  brain 
Doth  couch  his  lirr  >s,  there  golden  sleep  doth  reiga . 
Therefore  thy  ear.mess  doth  me  assure, 
Thou  art  up-rous'd  by  some  distemp'rature, 
Or,  if  not  so,  then  here  I  hit  it  light — 
Our  Romeo  hath  not  been  in  bed  to-night. 

Rom.  That  last  is  true,  the  sweeter  rest  was  mine. 


ROMEO    AND   JULIET.  215 

Fri  Heaven  pardcn  sin  !  wast  thou  with  Rosaline  ? 

Rom.  With  Rosaline,  my  ghostly  father  ?  no ; 
I  have  forgot  that  name,  and  that  name's  woe. 

Fri.  That's  my  good  son :  But  where  hast  thou  been  then  ? 

Rom.  I'll  tell  thee,  ere  thou  ask  it  me  again. 
I  have  been  feasting  with  mine  enemy  ; 
Where,  on  a  sudden,  one  hath  wounded  me. 
That's  by  me  wounded  ;  both  our  remedies 
Within  thy  help  and  holy  physic  lies. 

Fri.  Be  plain,  good  son,  and  homely  in  thy  drift ; 
Riddling  confession  finds  but  riddling  shrift. 

Rom.  Then  plainly  know,  my  heart's  dear  love  is  set 
On  the  fair  daughter  of  rich  Capulet : 
As  mine  on  hers,  so  hers  is  set  on  mine  ; 
And  all  combin'd,  save  what  thou  must  combine 
By  holy  marriage  ;  When,  and  where,  and  how, 
We  met,  we  \voo'd,  and  made  exchange  of  vow, 
I'll  tell  thee  as  we  pass ;  but  this  I  pray, 
That  thou  consent  to  marry  us  this  day. 

Fri.  Holy  Saint  Francis  !  'what  a  change  is  here  I 
Is  Rosaline,  whom  thou  didst  love  so  dear, 
So  soon  forsaken  ?  young  men's  love  then  lies 
Not  truly  in  their  hearts,  but  in  their  eyes. 
Jesu  Maria !  what  a  deal  of  brine 
Hath  wash'd  thy  sallow  cheeks  for  Rosaline  ! 
How  much  salt  water  thrown  away  in  waste, 
To  season  love  that  of  it  doth  not  taste  ! 
The  sun  not  yet  thy  sighs  from  heaven  clears, 
Thy  old  groans  ring  yet  in  my  ancient  ears ; 
Lo,  here  upon  thy  cheek  the  stain  doth  sit 
Of  an  old  tear  that  is  not  wash'd  off  yet : 
If  e'er  thou  wast  thyself,  and  these  woes  thine, 
Thou  and  these  woes  were  all  for  Rosaline  ; 
And  art  thou  chang'd  ?  pronounce  this  sentence  then- 
Women  may  fall,  when  there's  no  strength  in  men. 

Rom.  Thou  chid'st  me  oft  for  loving  Rosaline. 

Fri.  For  doting,  not  for  loving,  pupil  mine. 

Rom.  And  bad'st  me  bury  love. 

Fri.  Not  in  a  grave, 

To  lay  one  in,  another  out  to  have. 

Rom.  I  pray  thee,  chide  not :  she,  whom  I  love  now, 
Doth  grace  for  grace,  and  love  for  love  allow  ; 
The  other  did  not  so. 

Fri.  O,  she  knew  well, 

Thy  love  did  read  by  rote,  and  could  not  spell, 
But  come,  young  waverer,  come  go  with  me, 
In  one  respect  I'll  thy  assistant  be  ; 
For  this  alliance  may  so  happy  prove, 
To  turn  your  households'  rancor  to  pure  love. 


<S1O  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Rom.  O,  let  us  hence ;  I  stand  on  sudden  haste. 

Fri.  Wisely,  and  slew ;  they  stumble  that  rim  fast.          [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.— A  Street. 

Enter  BENVOLIO,  and  MERCUTIO. 

Mer.  Where  should  this  Romeo  be  ? — 
Came  he  not  home  to-night  ? 

Ben.  Not  to  his  father's  ;  I  spoke  with  his  man. 

Mer.  Ah,  that  same  pale  hard-hearted  girl,  that  Rosaline, 
Torments  him  so,  that  he  will  sure  run  mad. 

Ben.  Tybalt,  the  kinsman  of  old  Capulet, 
Hath  sent  a  letter  to  his  father's  house. 

Mer.  A  challenge,  on  my  life. 

Ben.  Romeo  will  answer  it. 

Mer.  Any  man  that  can  write,  may  answer  a  letter. 

Ben.  Nay,  he  will  answer  the  letter's  master,  how  he  dares,  being 
dared. 

Mer.  Alas,  poor  Romeo,  he  is  already  dead  !  shot  thorough  the 
ear  with  a  love-song ;  the  very  pin  of  his  heart  cleft  with  the  blind 
bow-boy's  butt-shaft ;  And  is  he  a  man  to  encounter  Tybalt  ? 

Ben.  Why,  what  is  Tybalt  ? 

Mer.  More  than  prince  of  cats,  I  can  tell  you.  O,  he  is  the 
courageous  captain  of  compliments.  He  fights  as  you  sing,  keeps 
time,  distance,  and  proportion ;  rests  me  his  minim  rest,  one,  two, 
and  the  third  in  your  bosom ;  the  very  butcher  of  a  silk  button,  a 
duellist,  a  gentleman  of  the  very  first  house, — of  the  first  and  second 
cause  :  Ah,  the  immortal  passado  !  the  punto  reverso !  the  hay  !„ 

Ben.  The  what  ? 

Mer.  The  plague  of  such  antic,  lisping,  affecting  fantasticoes ; 
theso  pew  tuners  of  accents! — Mafoi,  a  very  good  blade  I- — a  very 
tall  man ! — a  very  fine  girl ! — Why,  is  not  this  a  lamentable  thing, 
grondsire,  that  we  should  be  thus  afflicted  with  these  strange  flies, 
these  fashion-mongers,  these  pardonnez-moys  ? 

Enter  ROMEO. 

Ben.  Here  comes  Romeo,  here  comes  Romeo. 

Mer.  Without  his  roe,  like  a  dried  herring.  Signior  Romeo,  bon 
jour!  there's  a  French  salutation  for  you. 

Rom.  Good-morrow  to  you  both. 

Mer.  You  gave  us  the  counterfeit  last  night. 

Rom.  What  counterfeit  did  I  give  you  ? 

Mer.  The  slip,  sir,  the  slip  ;  Can  you  not  receive  ? 

Rom.  Pardon,  good  Mercutio,  my  business  was  great;  and,  in 
such  case  as  mine,  a  man  may  strain  courtesy. 

Enter  Nurse,  and  PETER. 
Nurse.  Peter ! 
Peter.  Anon? 


ROMEO    AND   JULIET.  .        217 

»  ^» 

Nurse.  My  fan,  Peter. 

Mer.  Pr'ythee,  do,  good  Peter,  to  hide  her  face  ;  for  her  fan's  the 
fairer  of  the  two. 

Nurse.  Give  ye  good-morrow,  gentlemen. 

Mer.  Give  ye  good  den,  fair  gentlewoman. 

Nurse.  Gentlemen,  can  any  of  you  tell  me  where  I  may  find  the 
young  Romeo  ? 

Rom.  I  am  the  youngest  of  that  name,  for  fault  of  a  worse. 

Nurse.  You  say  well.  If  you  be  he,  sir,  I  desire  some  confidence 
with  you. 

.    Mer.  Romeo,  will  you  come  to  your  father's  1 — we'll  to  dinner 
thither. 

Rom.  I  will  follow  you. 

Mer.  Farewell,  ancient  lady  ;  farewell. 

[Exeunt  MERCUTIO,  and  BENVOLIO. 

Nurse.  Marry,  farewell ! — I  pray  you,  sir,  what  saucy  merchant 
was  this,  that  was  so  full  of  his  roguery  ? 

Rom.  A  gentleman,  nurse,  that  loves  to  hear  himself  talk ;  and 
will  speak  more  in  a  minute,  than  he  will  stand  to  in  a  month. 

Nurse.  An  'a  speak  any  thing  against  me,  I'll  take  him  down. — 
Pray  you,  sir,  a  word  :  and  as  I  told  you,  my  young  lady  bade  me 
inquire  you  out ;  what  she  bade  me  say,  I  will  keep  to  myself :  but 
first  let  me  tell  ye,  if  ye  should  lead  her  into  fool's  paradise,  as  they 
say,  it  were  a  very  gross  kind  of  behavior,  as  they  say  :  for  the  gen- 
tlewoman is  young ;  and,  therefore,  if  you  should  deal  double  with 
her,  truly,  it  were  an  ill  thing  to  be  offered  to  any  gentlewoman,  and 
very  weak  dealing. 

Rom.  Nurse,  commend  me  to  thy  lady  and  mistress.  I  protest 
unto  thee, — 

Nurse.  Good  heart !  and,  i'  faith,  I  will  tell  her  as  much :  oh,  she 
will  be  a  joyful  woman. 

Rom.  What  wilt  thou  tell  her,  nurse  ?  thou  dost  not  mark  me. 

Nurse.  I  will  tell  her,  sir, — that  you  do  protest ;  which,  as  I  take 
it.  is  a  gentlemanlike  offer. 

Rom.  Bid  her  devise  some  means  to  come  to  shrift 
This  afternoon  ; 

And  there  she  shall  at  friar  Laurence'  cell 
Be  shriv'd,  and  married.     Here  is  for  thy  pains. 

Nurse.  No,  truly,  sir ;  not  a  penny. 

Rom.  Go  to  ;  I  say,  you  shall. 

Nurse.  This  afternoon,  sir  ?  well,  she  shall  be  there. 

Rom.  Farewell ! — Commend  me  to  thy  lady.  [Exit. 

Nurse.  Ay,  a  thousand  times. — Peter  ! 

Peter.  Anon  ? 

Nurse.  Peter,   take  my  fan,  and  go  before.  [Exeunt, 


11 


218  SHAKSPEAITAI*    READER. 

SCENE  V.— Capulet's  Garden. 

Enter  JULIET. 

JuL  The  clock  struck  nine,  when  I  did  send  the  nurse  $ 
In  half  an  hour  she  prornis'd  to  return. 
Perchance,  she  cannot  meet  him  : — that's  not  so. — • 
O,  she  is  lame  !  love's  heralds  should  be  thoughts. 
Which  ten  times  faster  glide  than  the  sun's  beams. 
Now  is  the  sun  upon  the  highmost  hill 
Of  this  day's  journey  ;  and  from  nine  till  twelve 
Is  three  long  hours, — yet  she  is  not  come. 
Had  she  affections,  and  warm  youthful  blood, 
She'd  be  as  swift  in  motion  as  a  ball. 

Enter  Nurse. 

O,  she  comes  ! — O  honey  nurse,  what  news  ? 
Now,  good  sweet  nurse, — O  !  why  look'st  thou  so  sad  ? 
Though  news  be  sad,  yet  tell  them  merrily  : — 
If  good,  thou  sham'st  the  music  of  sweet  news 
By  playing  it  to  me  with  so  sour  a  face. 

Nurse.  I  am  aweary,  give  me  leave  a  while  ; — 
Fye,  how  my  bones  ache  !     What  a  jaunt  have  I  had  ! 

JuL  I  would,  thou  hadst  my  bones,  and  I  thy  news  : 
Nay,  come,  I  pray  thee,  speak  ; — good,  good  nurse,  speak. 

Nurse.  What  haste  ?  can  you  not  stay  a  while  ? 
Do  you  not  see,  that  I  am  out  of  breath  ? 

JuL  How  art  thou  out  of  breath,  when  thou  hast  breath 
To  say  to  me — that  thou  art  out  of  breath  ? 
The  excuse,  that  thou  dost  make  in  this  delay, 
Is  longer  tnan  the  tale  thou  dost  excuse. 
Is  thy  news  good,  or  bad  ?  answer  to  that ; 
Say  either,  and  I'll  stay  the  circumstance  : 
Let  me  be  satisfied,  Is't  good  or  bad  ? 

Nurse.  Well,  you  have  made  a  simple  choice ;  you  know  not  how 
to  choose  a  man. — Go  thy  ways,  girl ;  serve  Heaven. — What,  have 
you  dined  at  home  ? 

JuL  No,  no  :  But  all 'this  did  I  know  before ; 
What  says  he  of  our  marriage  ?  what  of  that  ? 

Nurse.  Oh,  how  my  head  aches  !  what  a  head  have  1 ! 
It  beats  as  it  would  fall  in  twenty  pieces. — 
Beshrew  your  heart,  for  sending  me  about, 
To  catch  my  death  with  jaunting  up  and  down  1 

JuL  I'  faith,  I  am  sorry  that  thou  art  not  well : 
Sweet,  sweet,  sweet  nurse,  tell  me,  what  says  my  love  ? 

Nurse.  Your  love  says  like  an  honest  gentleman, 
And  a  courteous,  and  a  kind,  and  a  handsome, 
And,  I  warrant,  a  virtuous  : — Where  is  your  mother  ? 

JuL  Where  is  my  mother  ? — why,  she  is  within ; 


ROMiiO    AND   JULIET.  219 

Where  should  she  be  ?     How  oddly  thou  reply'st  ? 
Your  love  says  like  an  honest  gentleman., — 
Where  is  your  mother  ? 

Nurse.  Marry,  come  up,  I  trow  ; 

Is  this  the  poultice  for  my  aching1  bones  ? 
Henceforward  do  your  messages  yourself. 

Jul.  Here's  such  a  coil. — Come,  what  says  Romeo  ? 

Nurse.  Have  you  got  leave  to  go  to  shrift  to-day  ? 

Jul.  I  have. 

Nurse.  Then  hie  you  hence  to  friar  Laurence'  cell, 
There  stays  a  husband  to  make  you  a  wife. 
Go  ;  I'll  to  dinner  :  hie  you  to  the  cell. 

Jul.  Hie  to  high  fortune  ! — honest  nurse,  farewell.  \Exeu7d, 

SCENE  VI.— Friar  Laurence's  Cell 

Enter  Friar  LAURENCE,  and  ROMEO. 

Fri.  So  smile  the  heavens  upon  this  holy  act, 
That  after-hours  with  sorrow  chide  us  not ! 

Rom.  Amen,  amen  !  but  come  what  sorrow  can, 
It  cannot  countervail  the  exchange  of  joy 
That  one  short  minute  gives  me  in  her  sight : 
Do  thou  but  close  our  hands  with  holy  words, 
Then  love-devouring  death  do  what  he  dare, 
It  is  enough  1  may  but  call  her  mine. 

Fri.  These  violent  delights  have  violent  ends, 
And  in  their  triumph  die  ;  like  fire  and  powder, 
Which,  as  they  kiss,  consume :  The  sweetest  honey 
Is  loathsome  in  his  own  deliciousness, 
And  in  the  taste  confounds  the  appetite  : 
Therefore,  love  moderately  ;  long  love  doth  so  ; 
Too  swift  arrives  as  tardy  as  too  slow. 

Enter  JULIET. 

Here  comes  the  ladv  ; — O,  so  light  a  foot 
Will  ne'er  wear  out  the  everlasting  flint : 
A  lover  may  bestride  the  gossamers 
That  idle  in  the  wanton  summer  air, 
And  yet  not  fall ;  so  light  is  vanity. 

Jul.  Good  even  to  my  ghostly  confessor. 

Fri.  Romeo  shall  thank  thee,  daughter,  for  us  both. 

Jul.  As  much  to  him,  else  are  his  thanks  too  much. 

Rom.  Ah,  Juliet,  if  the  measure  of  thy  joy 
Be  heap'd  like  mine,  and  that  thy  skill  be  more 
To  blazon  it,  then  sweeten  with  thy  breath 
This  aeighbor  air,  and  let  rich  music's  tongue 
Unfold  the  imagin'd  happiness  that  both 
Receive  in  either  by  this  dear  encounter. 

Jul.  Conceit,  more  rich  in  matter  than  in  words, 


220  SIIAKSPEARlA*   READER. 

Brags  of  his  substance,  not  of  ornament : 
They  are  but  beggars  that  can  count  their  worth  ; 
But  my  true  love  is  grown  to  such  excess, 
I  cannot  sum  up  half  my  sum  of  wealth. 

Fri.  Come,  come  with  me,  and  we  will  make  short  work ; 
For,  by  your  leaves,  you  shall  not  stay  alone, 
Till  holy  church  incorporate  two  in  one.  [Exeunt* 

ACT  III. 

Tybalt,  indignant  at  Romeo's  intrusion  at  Capulet's  feast,  seeks  occasion  to  quarrel  with 
him;  Romeo  refuses  to  fight,— Mercutiu  cl  allenges  Tybalt  and  falls  in  the  encounter. 
Romeo  avenges  his  death  by  slaying  Tybalt,  and  is  condemned  by  the  Duke  to  perpetual 
banishment  from  Verona. 

SCENE  II.— A  Room  in  Capulet's  House. 
Enter  JULIET. 

Ju\  Gallop  apace,  you  fiery-footed  steeds, 
Towards  Phrebus'  mansion  ;  such  a  wagoner  •, 
As  Phaston  would  whip  you  to  the  west, 
And  bring  in  cloudy  night  immediately. — 
Give  me  my  Romeo  :  and,  when  he  shall  die, 
Take  him  and  cut  him  out  in  little  stars, 
And  he  will  make  the  face  of  heaven  so  fine, 
That  all  the  world  will  be  in  love  with  night, 
And  pay  no  worship  to  the  garish  sun. 
O,  here  comes  my  nurse, 

Enter  Nurse. 

And  she  brings  news  ;  and  every  tongue  that  speaks 
But  Romeo's  name,  speaks  heavenly  eloquence. — 
Now,  nurse,  what  news  ? 
Ah  me  !  why  dost  thou  wring  thy  hands  ? 

Nurse.  Ah  well-a-day  !  he's  dead,  he's  dead,  he's  dead  ! 
We  are  undone,  lady,  we  are  undone  ! — 
Alack  the  day  ! — he's  gone,  he's  kill'd,  he's  dead  ! 

Jul.  Can  heaven  be  so  envious  ? 

Nurse.  Romeo  can, 

Though  heaven  cannot : — O  Romeo,  Romeo  ! — 
Whoever  would  have  thought  it  ? —  Romeo  ! 

Jul.  What  demon  art  thou,  that  dost  torment  me  thus  ? 
Hath  Romeo  slain  himself  ?  say  thou  but  ay, 
And  that  bare  little  word  shall  poison  more 
Than  the  death-darting  eye  of  cockatrice. 

Nurse.  I  saw  the  wound,  I  raw  it  with  mine  eyes. — 
A  piteous  corse,  a  bloody  piteous  corse ; 
Pale,  pale  as  ashes  ; — I  swooned  at  the  sight. 

Jul.  O  break,  my  heart!— poor  bankrupt,  break  at  oncoJ 
To  orison,  eyes  !  ne'er  look  on  liberty ! 


ROMEO    AND   JULIET.  221 

Vile  earth,  to  earth  resign  ;  end  motion  here  ; 
And  thou,  and  Romeo,  press  one  heavy  bier  ! 

Nurse.  O  Tybalt,  Tybalt,  the  best  friend  I  had ! 
O  courteous  Tybalt !  honest  gentleman  ! 
That  ever  I  should  live  to  see  thee  dead  ! 

Jul.  What  storm  is  this,  that  blows  so  contrary  ? 
Is  Romeo  slaughter'd ;  and  is  Tybalt  dead  ? 

Nurse.  Tybalt  is  gone,  arid  Romeo  banished  ; 
Romeo,  that  killed  him,  he  is  banished. 

Jul  O  heaven  !  did  Romeo's  hand  shed  Tybalt's  b/3od  T 
Nurse.  It  did,  it  did  ;  alas  the  day  !  it  did. 
Jul.  O  serpent  heart,  hid  with  a  flow'ring  face  J 
Did  ever  dragon  keep  so  fair  a  cave  1 
O,  that  deceit  should  dwell 
In  such  a  gorgeous  palace  ! 

Nurse.  There's  no  trust, 

No  faith,  no  honesty  in  men  ;  all  perjur'd. 
Shame  come  to  Romeo  5 

Jul.  Blister'd  be  thy  tongue, 

For  such  a  wish  !  he  was  not  born  to  shame  ! 
Upon  his  brow  shame  is  asham'd  to  sit ; 
For  'tis  a  throne  where  honor  may  be  crown'd 
Sole  monarch  of  the  universal  earth. 
O,  what  a  wretch  was  I  to  chide  at  him  ! 

Nurse.  Will  you  speak  well  of  him  that.  khTd  your  cousin  t 
Jut.  Shall  I  speak  ill  of  him  that  is  my  husband  ? 
Ah,  poor  my  lord,  what  tongue  shall  smooth  thy  name, 
When  I,  thy  three  hours'  wife,  have  mangled  it  ? — 
Back,  foolish  tears,  back  to  your  native  spring  ; 
Your  tributary  drops  belong  to  woe, 
Which  you,  mistaking,  offer  up  to  joy. 
My  husband  lives,  that  Tybalt  would  have  slain, 
And  Tybalt's  dead,  that  would  have  slain  my  husbrmd : 
All  this  is  comfort ;  Wherefore  weep  I  then  ? 
Some  word  there  was,  worser  than  Tybalt's  death, 
That  murder'd  me  :  I  would  forget  it  fain  ; 
But,  O  !  it  presses  to  my  memory, 
Tybalt  is  dead,  and  Romeo — banished. 
That — banished,  that  one  word — banished, 
Hath  slain  ten  thousand  Tybalts. 
Romeo  is  banished.     In  that  one  word, 
Is  father,  mother,  Tybalt.  Romeo,  Juliet, 
All  slain,  all  dead. 
Where  is  my  father,  and  my  mother,  nurse  ? 

Nurse.  Weeping  and  wailing  over  Tybalt's  corse  : 
Will  you  go  to  them  ?     I  will  bring  you  thither. 

Jul.  Wash  they  his  wounds  with  tears,  mine  shall  be  spent 
When  theirs  are  dry,  for  Romeo's  banishment. 
Nurse.  Hie  to  youi  cha  Tiber  :  I'll  find  Romeo 


222  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

To  comfort  you  :  I  wot  well  where  he  is. 
I'll  to  him ;  he  is  hid  at  Laurence'  cell. 

Jul.     O  find  him  !  give  this  ring  to  my  true  knight, 
And  bid  him  come  to  take  his  last  farewell.  [Exeunt 

SCENE  III.— Friar  Laurence's  Cell 
Enter  Friar  LAURENCE,  and  ROMEO. 

Fri.  Romeo,  come  forth  ;  come  forth,  thou  fearful  man  : 
Affliction  is  enamord  of  thy  parts, 
And  thou  art  wedded  to  calamity. 

Rom.  Father,  what  news  ?  what  is  the  prince's  doom  ? 
What  sorrow  craves  acquaintance  at  my  hand. 
That  I  yet  know  not  ? 

Fri.  Too  familiar 

Is  my  dear  son  with  such  sour  company  ; 
I  bring  thee  tidings  of  the  prince's  doom. 

Rom.  What  less  than  doomsday  is  the  prince's  doom  ? 

Fri.  A  gentler  judgment  vanish'd  from  his  lips, 
Not  body's  death?  but  body's  banishment. 

Rom.  Ha  !  banishment  ?  be  merciful,  say — death : 
For  exile  hath  more  terror  in  his  look, 
Much  more  than  death  :  do  not  say — banishment. 
'Tis  death  mis-term'd  :  calling  death — banishment, 
Thou  cutt'st  my  head  off  with  a  golden  axe, 
And  smil'st  upon  the  stroke  that  murders  me. 

Fri.  O  deadly  sin  !  O  rude  urithankfulness  ! 
Thy  fault  our  law  calls  death  ;  but  the  kind  prince 
Taking  thy  part,  hath  rush'd  aside  the  law, 
And  turn'd  that  black  word  death  to  banishment : 
This  is  dear  mercy,  and  thou  seest  it  not. 

Rom.  'Tis  torture,  and  not  mercy :  heaven  is  here 
Where  Juliet  lives. 
Oh  Father !  how  hast  thou  the  heart, 
Being  a  divine,  a  ghostly  confessor, 
A  sin-absolver,  and  my  friend  profess'd, 
To  mangle  me  with  that  word — banishment  ? 

Fri.  Thou  fond  mad  man,  hear  me  but  speak  a  word. 

Rom.  O,  thou  wilt  speak  again  of  banishment. 

Fri.  I'll  give  thee  armor  lo  keep  off  that  word ; 
Adversity's  sweet  milk,  philosophy, 
To  comfort  thee,  though  thou  art  banished. 

Rom.  Yet  banished  ? — Hang  up  philosophy  ! 
(Jnless  philosophy  can  make  a  Juliet. 

Fri.  O,  then  !  see  that  madmen  have  no  ears. 

Ram.  How  should  they,  when  that  wise  men  have  no  eyes  'I 

Fri.  Let  me  dispute  with  thee  of  thy  estate. 

Rom.  Thou  canst  not  speak  of  what  thou  dost  not  feel : 
Wert  thou  as  young  as  I,  Juliet  thy  love, 


ROMEO    AND   JULIET.  223 

labour  but  married,  Tybalt  murdered, 
Doting  like  me,  and  like  me  banished, 
Then  might'st  thou  speak,  then  might'st  thou  tear  thy  hair 
And  fall  upon  the  ground,  as  I  do  now, 
Taking  the  measure  of  an  unmade  grave. 

Fri.  Arise  ;  one  knocks  ;  good  Romeo,  hide  thyself. 

[Knocking  within. 

Rom.  Not  I ;  unless  the  breath  of  heart-sick  groans, 
Mist-like,  infold  me  from  the  search  of  eyes.  .  [Knocking. 

Fri.  Hark,  how  they  knock  !— Who's  there  ? — Romeo,  arise  ; 
Thou  wilt  be  taken  :— Stay  awhile  :— stand  up  ;  [Knocking. 

What  wilfulness  is  this  ?— I  come,  I  come.  [Knocking. 

Who  knocks  so  hard  ?  whence  come  you  ?  what's  your  will. 

Nurse.  [Within.]  Let  me  come  in,  and  you  shall  know  my  er« 
I  come  from  my  lady  Juliet.  [rand. 

Fri.  Welcome  then. 

Enter  Nurse. 

Nurse.  O  holy  friar ;  O,  tell  me,  holy  friar, 
Where  is  my  lady's  lord,  where's  Romeo  ? 

Fri.  There  on  the  ground,  with  his  own  tears  made  drunk. 

Nurse.  O,  he  is  even  in  my  mistress'  case, 
Just  in  her  case  ! 

Fri.  O  woful  sympathy  ! 

Piteous  predicament ! 

Nurse.  Even  so  lies  she. 

Stand  up,  stand  up  ;  stand,  an  you  be  a  man  : 
For  Juliet's  sake,  for  her  sake,  rise. 

Rom.  Spak'st  thou  of  Juliet  ?  how  is  it  with  her.? 
Doth  she  not  think  me  an  old  murderer, 
Now  I  have  stain'd  the  childhood  of  our  joy 
With  blood  ? 
Where  is  she  ?  how  doth  she  ?  and  what  says  she  ? 

Nurse.  O,  she  says  nothing,  sir,  but  weeps  and  weeps ; 
And  now  falls  on  her  bed ;  and  then  starts  up, 
And  Tybalt  calls ;  and  then  on  Romeo  cries, 
And  then  down  falls  again. 

Rom.  As  if  that  name, 

Shot  from  the  deadly  level  of  a  gun, 
Did  murder  her ;  as  that  name's  cursed  hand 
Murder'd  her  kinsman. — O  tell  me,  friar,  tell  me, 
In  what  vile  part  of  this  anatomy 
Doth  my  name  lodge  ?  tell  me,  that  I  may  sack 
The  hateful  mansion.  [Draws  his  sword 

Fri.  Hold  thy  desperate  hand  : 

Art  thou  a  man  ?  thy  form  cries  out  thou  art ; 
Thy  tears  are  womanish  ;  thy  wild  acts  denote 
The  unreasonable  fury  of  a  beast. 
Thou  hast  amaz'd  me  :  by  my  holy  order, 


224  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

I  thought  thy  disposition  better  temper'd.  •* 

Hast  thou  slain  Tybalt  ?  wilt  thou  slay  thyself? 

And  slay  thy  lady  too  that  lives  in  thee  ? 

What,  rouse  thee,  man !  thy  Juliet  is  alive. 

Go,  get.  thee  to  thy  love,  as  was  decreed, 

Ascend  her  chamber,  hence  and  comfort  her ; 

But,  look,  thou  stay  not  till  the  watch  be  set, 

For  then  thou  canst  not  pass  to  Mantua ; 

Where  tliou  shalt  live,  till  we  can  find  a  time 

To  blaze  your  marriage,  reconcile  your  friends, 

Beg  pardon  of  the  prince,  and  call  thee  back 

With  twenty  hundred  thousand  times  more  joy  , 

Than  thou  went'st  forth  in  lamentation. — 

Go,  before,  nurse  :  commend  me  to  thy  lady ; 

And  bid  her  hasten  all  the  house  to  rest. 

Romeo  is  coming. 

Nurse.  O,  I  could  have  staid  here  all  the  night, 
To  hear  good  counsel :  O,  what  learning  is  ! — 
My  lord,  I'll  tell  my  lady  you  will  come. 

Rom.  Do  so,  and  bid  my  sweet  prepare  to  chide. 

Nurse.  Here,  sir,  a  ring  she  bid  me  give  you,  sir : 
Hie  you,  make  haste,  for  it  grows  very  late.  [Exit  Nurse 

Rom.  How  well  my  comfort  is  reviv'd  by  this  ! 

Fri.  Go  hence  :  Good  night ;  and  here  stands  all  your  state ; 
Either  begone  before  the  watch  be  set, 
Or  by  the  break  of  day  disguis'd  from  hence  : 
Sojourn  in  Mantua ;  I'll  find  out  your  man, 
And  he  shall  signify  from  time  to  time 
Every  good  hap  to  you,  that  chances  here  : 
Give  me  thy  hand  ;  'tis  late  :  farewell ;  good  night. 

Rom.  But  that  a  joy  past  joy  calls  out  on  me, 
It  were  a  grief,  so  brief  to  part  with  thee : 
Farewell.  [Exeunt 

SCENE  V.— Juliet's  Chamber. 
Enter  ROMEO,  and  JULIET. 

Jul.  Wilt  thou  be  gone  ?  it  is  not  yet  near  day  : 
It  was  the  nightingale,  and  not  the  lark, 
That  pierc'd  the  fearful  hollow  of  thine  ear; 
Nightly  she  sings  on  yon  pomegranate  tree  : 
Believe  me,  love,  it  was  the  nightingale. 

Rom.  It  was  the  lark,  the  herald  of  the  morn, 
No  nightingale :  look,  love,  what  envious  streaks 
Do  lace  the  severing  clouds  in  yonder  east : 
Night's  candles  are  burnt  out,  and  jocund  day 
Stands  tiptoe  on  the  misty  mountain  tops  ; 
I  must  be  gone  and  live,  or  stay  and  die. 

Jul.  Yon  light  is  not  day-light,  I  know  it,  I : 


ROMEO    AND   JULIET.  225 

It  is  some  meteor  that  the  sun  exhales, 
To  be  to  thee  this  night  a  torch-bearer, 
And  light  thee  on  thy  way  to  Mantua : 
Therefore  stay  yet,  thou  need'st  not  to  be  gone. 

Rom.  Let  me  be  ta'en,  let  me  be  put  to  death ; 
I  am  content,  so  thou  wilt  have  it  so. 
I'll  say,  yon  gray  is  not  the  morning's  eye, 
'Tis  but  the  pale  reflex  of  Cynthia's  brow  ; 
Nor  that  is  not  the  lark,  whose  notes  do  beat 
The  vaulty  heaven  so  high  above  our  heads  : 
I  have  more  care  to  stay  than  will  to  go ; — 
Come,  death,  and  welcome  !  Juliet  wills  it  so. — 
How  is't,  my  soul  ?  let's  talk,  it  is  not  day. 

Jul.  It  is,  it  is,  hie  hence,  be  gone,  away ; 
It  is  the  lark  that  sings  so  out  of  tune, 
Straining  harsh  discords,  and  unpleasing  sharps. 
O,  now  be  gone  ;  more  light  and  light  it  grows. 

Rom.  More  light  and  light  ? — more  dark  and  dark  our  woes. 

Enter  Nurse. 

Nurse.  Madam  ! 

Jul.  Nurse? 

Nurse.  Your  lady  mother's  coming  to  your  chamber .  [Ex.  Nurse, 

Rom.  Farewell,  farewell !  one  kiss,  and  I'll  descend. 

[ROMEO  descends 

Jul.  Art  thou  gone  so  ?  my  love  !  my  lord  !  my  friend ! 
I  must  hear  from  thee  every  day  i'  the  hour, 
For  in  a  minute  there  are  many  days  : 
O  !  by  this  count  I  shall  be  much  in  years, 
Ere  I  again  behold  my  Romeo. 

Rom.  Farewell !  I  will  omit  no  opportunity 
That  may  convey  my  greetings,  love,  to  thee. 

Jul.  O,  think'st  thou,  we  shall  ever  meet  again  ? 

Rom.  I  doubt  it  not ;  and  all  these  woes  shall  serve 
For  sweet  discourses  in  our  time  to  come. 

Jul.  O  Heaven  !  I  have  an  ill-divining  soul ; 
Methinks,  I  see  thee,  now  thou  art  below, 
As  one  dead  in  the  bottom  of  a  tomb ; 
Either  my  eye-sight  fails,  or  thou  look'st  pale. 

Rom.  And  trust  me,  love,  in  my  eye,  so  do  you  : 
Dry  sor/5w  drinks  our  blood.     Adieu  !  adieu  !  [Exit  ROMEO 

Jul  JO  fortune,  fortune  !  all  men  call  thee  fickle : 
If  thou  art  fickle,  what  dost  thou  with  him 
That  is  renown'd  for  faith  ?     Be  fickle,  fortune ; 
For  then,  I  hope,  thou  wilt  not  keep  him  long, 
But  send  him  back. 


11' 


226  SHAKESPEARIAN    READER. 


ACT  IV. 

Capulet  determines  to  marry  Juliet,  immediately,  to  the  County  Paris  ;  she  im>  Vires  ho 
parents  in  vain,  to  defer  the  match,— distracted  at  the  thought  of  being  compelled  t« 
marry  a  second  husband  while  Romeo  is  yet  living,  she  consults  Friar  Laurence  in  hei 
•xtremity. 

SCENE  I.— Friar  Laurence's  Cell 
Enter  Friar  LAURENCE,  and  PARIS. 

Fri.  On  Thursday,  sir  ?  the  time  is  very  short. 

Par.  My  father  Capulet  will  have  it  so  ; 
And  I  am  nothing  slow,  to  slack  his  haste. 

Fri.  You  say,  you  do  not  know  the  lady's  mind ; 
Uneven  is  the  course,  I  like  it  not 

Par.  Immoderately  she  weeps  for  Tybalt's  death, 
And  therefore  have  I  little  talk'd  of  love ; 
Now,  sir,  her  father  counts  it  dangerous, 
That  she  doth  give  her  sorrow  so  much  sway ; 
And,  in  his  wisdom,  hastes  our  marriage, 
To  stop  the  inundation  of  her  tears  ; 
Which,  too  much  minded  by  herself  alone, 
May  be  put  from  her  by  society  : 
Now,  do  you  know  the  reason  of  this  haste  ? 

Fri.  I  would  I  knew  not  why  it  should  be  slow'd.  [Aside. 

Look,  sir,  here  comes  the  lady  towards  my  cell. 

Enter  JULIET. 

Par.  Happily  met,  my  lady,  and  my  wife  ! 

Jul.  That  may  be,  sir,  when  I  may  be  a  wife. 

Par.  That  may  be,  must  be,  love,  on  Thursday  next. 

Jul.  What  must  be,  shall  be. 

Fri.  That's  a  certain  text. 

Par.  Come  you  to  make  confession  to  this  father  ? 

Jul.  To  answer  that,  were  to  confess  to  you. 
Are  you  at  leisure,  holy  father,  now ; 
Or  shall  I  come  to  you  at  evening  mass  ? 

Fri.  My  leisure  serves  me,  pensive  daughter,  now  t — 
My  lord,  we  must  entreat  the  time  alone. 

Par.  Heaven  shield,  I  should  disturb  devotion ! 
Juliet,  farewell.  [Exit  PARIS 

Jul.  O,  shut  the  door !  and  when  thou  hast  done  so, 
Come  weep  with  me  :  Past,  hope,  past  cure,  past  help  ! 

Fri.  Ah,  Juliet,  I  already  know  thy  grief; 
ft  strains  me  past  the  compass  of  my  wits  : 
[  hear  thou  must,  and  nothing  must  prorogue  it, 
On  Thursday  next  be  married  to  this  county. 

Jul.  Tell  me  not,  friar,  that  thou  hear'st  of  this, 
thou  tell  me  how  I  may  prevent  it : 


ROMEO    AND   JULIET.  227 

^f,  in  thy  wisdom,  thou  canst  give  no  help, 

Do  thou  but  call  my  resolution  wise, 

And  with  this  knife  I'll  help  it  presently. 

Heaven  joined  my  heart  and  Romeo's,  thou  our  hands  * 

And  ere  this  hand,  by  thee  to  Romeo  seal'd, 

Shall  be  the  label  to  another  deed, 

Or  my  true  heart  with  treacherous  revolt 

Turn  to  another,  this  shall  slay  them  both  • 

Therefore,  out  of  thy  long-experienc'd  time, 

Give  me  some  present  counsel ;  or,  behold, 

'Twixt  my  extremes  and  me  this  bloody  knife 

Shall  play  the  umpire. 

Fri.  Hold,  daughter  ;  I  do  spy  a  kind  of  hope 
Which  craves  as  desperate  an  execution 
As  that  is  desperate  which  we  would  prevent. 
If,  rather  than  to  marry  County  Paris, 
Thou  hast  the  strength  of  will  to  slay  thyself; 
Then  is  it  likely,  thou  wilt  undertake 
A  thing  like  death  to  chide  away  this  shame, 
That  cop'st  with  death  himself  to 'scape  from  it; 
And,  if  thou  dar'st.  I'll  give  thee  remedy. 

Jul.  O,  bid  me  leap,  rather  than  marry  Paris, 
From  off  the  battlements  of  yonder  tower  ; 
Or  walk  in  thievish  ways  ;  or  bid  me  lurk 
Where  serpents  are ;  chain  me  with  roaring  bears ; 
Or  shut  me  nightly  in  a  charnel-house, 
O'er-covered  quite  with  dead  men's  rattling  bones ; 
Or  bid  me  go  into  a  new-made  grave, 
And  hide  me  with  a  dead  man  in  his  shroud ; 
Things  that,  to  hear  them  told,  have  made  me  tremble 
And  I  will  do  it  without  fear  or  doubt, 
To  live  an  unstain'd  wife  to  my  sweet  love. 

Fri.  Hold,  then  ;  go  home,  be  merry,  give  consent 
To  marry  Paris :  Wednesday  is  to-morrow  : 
To-morrow  night  look  that  thou  lie  alone, 
Let  not  thy  nurse  lie  with  thee  in  thy  chamber : 
Take  thou  this  phial,  being  then  in  bed, 
And  this  distilled  liquor  drink  thou  off; 
When,  presently,  through  all  thy  veins  shall  run 
A  cold  and  drowsy  humor,  which  shall  seize 
Each  vital  spirit ;  for  no  pulse  shall  keep 
His  natural  progress,  but  surcease  to  beat : 
No  warmth,  no  breath,  shall  testify  thou  liv'st ; 
The  roses  in  thy  lips  and  cheeks  shall  fade 
To  paly  ashes ;  thy  eyes'  windows  fall, 
Like  death,  when  he  shuts  up  the  day  of  life; 
Each  part,  depriv'd  of  supple  government.  ^ 

Shall  stiff,  and  stark,  and  cold,  appear  like  death ! 
And  in  this  borrow'd  likeness  of  shrunk'u'eath 


~2  SIIAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Thou  snalt  remain  full  two  and  forty  hours, 

And  then  awake  as  from  a  pleasant  sleep. 

Now  when  the  bridegroom  in  the  morning  comes 

To  rouse  thee  from  thy  bed,  there  art  thou  dead : 

Then  (as  the  manner  of  our  country  is,) 

In  thy  best  robes  uncover'd  on  the  bier, 

Thou  shall  be  borne  to  that  same  ancient  vault, 

Where  all  the  kindred  of  the  Capulets  lie. 

In  the  mean  time,  against  thou  shalt  awake, 

Shall  Romeo  by  my  letters  know  our  drift : 

And  hither  shall  he  come  ;  and  he  and  I 

Will  watch  thy  waking,  and  that  very  night 

Shall  Romeo  bear  thee  hence  to  Mantua. 

And  this  shall  free  thee  from  this  present  shame ; 

If  no  unconstant  toy,  nor  womanish  fear, 

Abate  thy  valor  in  the  acting  it. 

JuL  Give  me,  O  give  me  !  tell  me  not  of  fear. 

Fri.  Hold  ;  get  you  gone,  be  strong  and  prosperous 
In  this  resolve  :  I'll  send  a  friar  with  speed 
To  Mantua,  with  my  letters  to  thy  lord. 

JuL  Love,  give  me  strength  !  and  strength  shall  help  afford. 
Farewell,  dear  father !    "  [ Exeunt 

SCENE  III.— Juliet's  Chamber. 
Enter  JULIET,  and  Nurse. 

Jul.  Ay,  those  attires  are  best : — But,  gentle  nurse, 
I  pray  thee,  leave  me  to  myself  to-night ; 
For  I  have  need  of  many  orisons 
To  move  the  heavens  to  smile  upon  my  state, 
Which,  well  thou  know'st,  is  cross  and  full  of  sin. 

Enter  Lady  CAPULET. 

La.  Cap.  What,  are  you  busy  ?  do  you  need  my  help  ? 

Jul.  No,  madam  ;  we  have  cull'd  such  necessaries 
As  are  behoveful  for  our  state  to-morrow : 
So  please  you,  let  me  now  be  left  alone, 
And  let  the  nurse  this  night  sit. up  with  you  ; 
For,  I  am  sure,  you  have  your  hands  full  all, 
In  this  so  sudden  business. 

Lfl.  Cap.  Good  night ! 

Get  thee  to  bed,  and  rest ;  for  thou  hast  need. 

[Exeunt  Lady-  CAPULET,  and  Nursa 

Jul.  Farewell ! — heaven  knows,  when  we  shall  meet  again. 
I  have  a  faint  cold  fear  thrills  through  my  veins, 
That  almost  freezes  up  the  heat  of  life  : 
I'll  call  them  back  again  to  comfort  me: — 
Nurse  ! — What  should  she  do  here  '? 


ROMEO    AND    JULIET.  229 

My  dismal  scene  I  needs  must  act  alone. — 
Come,  phial. — 

What  if  this  mixture  do  not  work  at  all  ? 
Must  I  of  force  be  married  to  the  county  ? — 
No,  no  ; — this  shall  forbid  it : — lie  thou  there. — 

[Laying  down  a  dagger. 
What  if  it  be  a  poison,  which  the  friar 
Subtly  hath  minister'd  to  have  me  dead  ; 
Lest  in  this  marriage  he  should  be  dishonor'd, 
Because  he  married  me  before  to  Romeo  ri 
I  fear,  it  is  :  and  yet,  methiaks,  it  should  not, 
For  he  hath  still  been  tried  a  holy  man  : 
I  will  not  entertain  so  bad  a  thought. — 
How  if,  when  I  am  laid  into  the  tomb, 
I  wake  before  the  time  that  Romeo 
Come  to  redeem  me  ?  there's  a  fearful  point ! 
Shall  I  not  then  be  stifled  in  the  vault, 
To  whose  foul  mouth  no  healthsome  air  breathes  in, 
And  there  die  strangled  ere  my  Romeo  comes  ? 
Or,  if  I  live,  is  it  not  very  like, 
The  horrible  conceit  of  death  and  night, 
Together  with  the  terror  of  the  place, 
As  in  a  vault,  an  ancient  receptacle, 
Where,  for  these  many  hundred  years,  the  bones 
Of  all  my  buried  ancestors  are  pack'd  ; 
Where  bloody  Tybalt,  yet  but  green  in  earth, 
Lies  fest'ring  in  his  shroud ;  where,  as  they  say, 
At  some  hours  in  the  night  spirits  resort  : — 
O  !  if  I  wake,  shall  I  not  be  distraught, 
Environed  with  all  these  hideous  fears  ? 
And  madly  play  with  my  forefathers'  joints  ? 
And  pluck  the  mangled  Tybalt  from  his  shroud  ? 
And,  in  this  rage,  with  some  great  kinsman's  bone, 
As  with  a  club,  dash  out  my  desperate  brains  ? 
O,  look  !  methinks,  I  see  my  cousin's  ghost 
Seeking  out  Romeo. — Stay,  Tybalt,  stay ! — 
Romeo,  I  come  !  this  do  I  drink  to  thee. 

[She  throws  herself  on  tlie  bed. 

Juliet  being  supposed  dead  is  interred  in  "  the  Tomb  of  the  Capulots  " 

ACT   V. 

SCENE  I.— Mantua.     A  Street. 

Enter  ROMEO. 

Rom.  If  1  may  trust  the  flattering  eye  of  sleep, 
My  dreams  presage  some  joyful  news  at  hand  : 
My  bosom's  lord  sits  lightly  in  his  throne ; 
And,  all  this  day,  an  unaccustom'd  spirit 


330  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Lifts  me  above  the  ground  with  cheerful  thoughts 
I  dreamt,  my  lady  came  and  found  me  dead ; 
And  breath'd  such  life  with  kisses  in  my  lips, 
That  I  reviv'd,  and  was  an  emperor. 

Enter  BALTHASAR. 

News  from  Verona  ! — How  now,  Balthasar  ? 
Dost  thou  not  bring  me  letters  from  the  friar  ? 
How  doth  my  lady  ?     Is  my  father  well  ? 
How  fares  my  Juliet  ?     That  I  ask  again ; 
For  nothing  can  be  ill,  if  she  be  well. 

Bal.  Then  she  is  well,  and  nothing  can  be  ill : 
Her  body  sleeps  in  Capulet's  monument, 
And  her  immortal  part  with  angels  lives. 
I  saw  her  laid  low  in  her  kindred's  vault, 
And  presently  took  post  to  tell  it  you  : 

0  pardon  me  for  bringing  these  ill  news, 
Since  you  did  leave  it  for  my  office,  sir. 

Rom.  Is  it  even  so  ?  then  I  defy  you,  stars  ! — 
Thou  know'st  my  lodging  :  get  me  ink  and  paper, 
And  hire  post-horses :  I  will  hence  to-night. 

Bal.  Pardon  me,  sir,  I  will  not  leave  you  thus  : 
Your  looks  are  pale  and  wild,  and  do  import 
Some  misadventure. 

Rom.  Tush,  thou  art  deceiv'd  ; 

Leave  me,  and  do  the  thing  I  bid  thee  do. 
Hast  thou  no  letters  to  me  from  the  friar  ? 

Bal.  No,  my  good  lord. 

Rom.  No  matter:  get  thee  gone, 

And  hire  those  horses ;  I'll  be  with  thee  straight.     [Exit  BALIHASAR 
Well,  Juliet,  I  will  be  with  thee  to-night. 
Let's  see  for  means  : — O,  mischief !  thou  art  swift 
To  enter  in  the  thoughts  of  desperate  men ! 

1  do  remember  an  apothecary, — 

And  hereabouts  he  dwells, — whom  late  I  noted 

In  tatter'd  weeds,  with  overwhelming  brows, 

Culling  of  simples ;  meagre  were  his  looks, 

Sharp  misery  had  worn  him  to  the  bones : 

And  in  his  needy  shop  a  tortoise  hung, 

An  alligator  stuff'd,  and  other  skins 

Of  ill-shap'd  fishes ;  and  about  his  shelves 

A  beggarly  account  of  empty  boxes, 

Green  earthen  pots,  bladders,  and  musty  seeds, 

Remnants  of  packthread,  and  old  cakes  of  roses, 

Were  thinly  scatter'd  to  make  up  a  show. 

Noting  his  penury,  to  myself  I  said — 

An  if  a  man  did  need  a  poison  now 

Whoso  sale  is  present  death  in  Mantua, 

Here  lives  a  caitiff  wretch  would  se  '  it  him. 


ROMEO    AND   JULIET.  '231 

O,  this  same  thought  did  but  fore-run  my  need 
As  1  remember,  this  should  be  the  house : 
Being  holiday,  the  beggar's  shop  is  shut. — 
What,  ho  !  apothecary  ! 

Enter  Apothecary. 

Ap.  Who  calls  so  loud  ? 

Rom.  Come  hither,  man. — I  see,  that  thou  art  Door: 
Hold,  there  is  forty  ducats  :  let  me  have 
A  dram  of  poison  ;  such  soon-speeding  gear 
As  will  disperse  itself  through  all  the  veins, 
That  the  life-weary  taker  may  faJl  dead. 

Ap.  Such  mortal  drugs  I  have  ;  but  Mantua's  law 
Is  death,  to  any  he  that  utters  them. 

Rom.  Art  thou  so  bare  and  full  of  wretchedness, 
And  fear'st  to  die  ?  famine  is  in  thy  cheeks, 
Need  and  oppression  starveth  in  thy  eyes, 
Upon  thy  back  hangs  ragged  misery, 
The  world  is  not  thy  friend,  nor  the  world's  law; 
The  world  affords  no  law  to  make  thee  rich ; 
Then  be  not  poor,  but  break  it,  and  take  this. 

Ap.  My  poverty,  but  not  my  will,  consents. 

Rom.  I  pay  thy  poverty,  and  not  thy  will. 

Ap.  Put  this  in  any  liquid  thing  you  will, 
And  drink  it  off;  and,  if  you  had  the  strength 
Of  twenty  men,  it  would  dispatch  you  straight. 

Rom.  There  is  thy  gold  ;  worse  poison  to  men's  souls, 
Doing  more  murders  in  this  loathsome  world, 
Than  these  poor  compounds  that  thou  may'st  not  sell : 
I  sell  thee  poison,  thou  hast  sold  me  none. 
Farewell :  buy  food,  and  get  thyself  in  flesh. — • 
Come,  cordial,  and  not  poison  ;  go  with  me 
To  Juliet's  grave,  for  there  must  I  use  thee.  [Exeunt, 

Friar  Laurence  learns  that  the  messenger  to  Romeo  has  failed.    He  goes  to  the  church- 
yard  to  remove  Juliet  from  the  Tomb. 

SCENE  III. — A  Church-  Yard ;  in  it,  a  Monument  belonging  to  fa 
Capulets. 

Enter  PARIS,  and  his  Page,  bearing  flowers  and  a  torch. 
Par.  Give  me  thy  torch,  boy :  Hence,  and  aland  aloof; — 
Yet  put  it  out,  for  I  would  not  be  seen. 
Under  yon  yew  trees  lay  thee  all  along, 
Holding  thine  ear  close  to  the  hollow  ground  ; 
So  shall  no  foot  upon  the  church-yard  tread, 
(Being  loose,  unfirm,  with  digging  up  of  graves,) 
But  thou  shalt  hear  it :  whistle  then  to  me 
As  signal  that  thou  hear'st  something  approach. 
Give  me  those  flowers.     Do  as  1  bid  thee,  go. 


23*2  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Page.  I  am -almost- afraid  to  stand  alone 
Here,  in  the  church-yard ;  yet  I  will  adventure.  [Retire* 

Par.  Sweet  flower,  with  flowers  thy  bridal  bed  I  strew. 
Fair  Juliet,  that  with  angels  dost  remain, 
Accept  this  latest  favor  at  my  hands  ; 
That  living  honor'd  thee  ;  and,  being  dead, 

With  funeral  praises  do  adorn  thy  tomb !  [The  Boy  whistks. 

The  boy  gives  warning,  something  doth  approach. 
What  cursed  foot  wanders  this  way  to-night, 
To  cross  my  obsequies,  and  true  love's  rites  ? 
What,  with  a  torch ! — muffle  me,  night,  a  while.  [Retires. 

Enter  ROMEO,  and  BALTHASAR,  with  a  torch,  mattock,  6fC. 

Rom.  Give  me  that  mattock,  and  the  wrenching  iron 
Hold,  take  this  letter ;  -early  in  the  morning 
See  thou  deliver  it  to  my  lord  and  father. 
Give  me  the  light :  Upon  thy  life  I  charge  thee, 
Whate'er  thou  hear'st  or  seest,  stand  all  aloof, 
And  do  not  interrupt  me  in  my  course. 
Why  I  descend  into  this  bed  of  death, 
Is,  partly,  to  behold  my  lady's  face : 
But,  chiefly,  to  take  thence  from  her  dead  finger 
A  precious  ring ;  a  ring,  that  I  must  use 
In  dear  employment :  therefore  hence,  be  gone  :— 
But  if  thou,  jealous,  dost  return  to  pry 
In  what  I  further  shall  intend  to  do, 
By  heaven,  I  will  tear  thee  joint  by  joint, 
And  strew  this  hungry  church-yard  with  thy  limbs: 
The  time  and  my  intents  are  savage-wild ; 
More  fierce,  and  more  inexorable  far, 
Than  empty  tigers,  or  the  roaring  sea. 

Bal.  I  will  be  gone,  sir,  and  not  trouble  you. 

Rom.  So  shalt  thou  show  me  friendship. — Take  thou  thai 
Live,  and  be  prosperous  ;  and  farewell,  good  fellow. 

Bal.  For  all  this  same,  I'll  hide  me  hereabout ; 
His  looks  I  fear,  and  his  intents  I  doubt.  [Retires 

Rom.  Thou  detestable  maw, 
Gorg'd  with  the  dearest  morsel  of  the  earth, 
Thus  I  enforce  thy  rotten  jaws  to  open, 

[Breaking  open  the  door  of  the  monument 
And,  in  despite,  I'll  cram  thee  with  more  food ! 

Par.  Stop  thy  unhallow'd  toil,  vile  Montague  ;  [Advance* 

Can  vengeance  be  pursu'd  further  than  death  ? 
Condemned  villain,  I  do  apprehend  thee  ; 
Obey,  and  go  with  me,  for  thou  must  die. 

Rom.  I  must,  indeed  ;  and  therefore  came  I  hither.— 
Good  gentle  youth,  tempt  not  a  desperate  man, 
Fly  hence  and  leave  me ; — think  upon  these  gone  ; 
Let  them  affright  thee  :— I  beseech  thce,  youth, 


ROMEO    AND   JULIET.  ,  233 

Heap  not  another  sin  upon  my  head, 

By  urging  me  to  fury  : — O,  be  gone  ! 

By  heaven,  I  love  thee  better  than  myself; 

For  I  come  hither  arm'd  against  myself:    • 

Stay  not,  be  gone  ; — live,  and  hereafter  say — 

A  madman's  mercy  bade  thee  jun  away. 

Par.  1  do  defy  thy  conjurations, 
And  do  attach  thee  as  a  felon  here. 

Rom.  Wilt  thou  provoke  me  ?  then  have  at  tnee,  boy. 

[They. figto^ 

Par.  O,  I  am  slain  ! — [Falls.'] — If  thou  be  merciful, 
Open  the  tomb,  lay  me  with  Juliet.  [Dies. 

Rom.  In  faith,  I  will : — Let  me  peruse  this  face  ; — 
Mercutio's  kinsman,  noble  County  Paris. — 
One  writ  with  me  in  sour  misfortune's  book ! 
I'll  bury  thee  in  a  triumphant  grave, — 
For  here  lies  Juliet.— O,  rny  love  !  my  wife ! 
Death,  that  hath  suck'd  the  honey  of  thy  breath, 
Hath  had  no  power  yet  upon  thy  beauty : 
Thou  art  not  conquer'd ;  beauty's  ensign  yet 
Is  crimson  in  thy  lips,  and  in  thy  cheeks,    ' 
And  death's  pale  flag  is  not  advanced  there — 
Ah,  dear  Juliet,  why  art  thou  yet  so  fair  ? 
Here,  here  will  I  remain:  O,  here 
Will  I  set  up  my  everlasting  rest ; 
And  shake  the  yoke  of  inauspicious  stars 
'From  this  world-wearied  flesh. 
Come,  bitter  conduct,  come,  unsavory  guide  ! 
Thou  desperate  pilot,  now  at  once  run  on 
'The  dashing  rocks  thy  sea-sick  weary  bark  ! 
Here's  to  my  love  I- — [Drinks.] — O,  true  apothecary  ! 
,Thy  drugs  are  quick. — Thus  with  a  kiss  I  die.  [Dies. 

Enter,  at  the  other  end  of  the  church-yard,  Friar  LAURENCE,  with  a 
lantern,  crow,  and  spade. 

Fri.  Saint  Francis  be  my  speed  !  how  oft  to-night 
Have  my  old  feet  stumbled  at  graves  ? — Who's  there  ? 
Who  is  it  that  consorts,  so  late,  the  dead  ? 

Bal.  Here's  one,  a  friend,  and  one  that  knows  you  well. 

Fri.  Bliss  be  upon  you  !     Tell  me,  good  my  friend, 
What  torch  is  yond,  that  vainly  lends  his  light 
To  grubs  and  eyeless  skulls  ;  as  I  discern, 
It  burneth  in  the  Capel's  monument. 

Bal.  It  doth  so,  holy  sir  ;  and  there's  my  master, 
One  that  you  love. 

Fri.        '  Who  is  it  ? 

Bal.  Romeo. 

Fri.  How  long  hath  he  been  there  ? 

Bal  Full  half  an  hour. 


234  SHAKSPEARIAN     READER. 


Fri .  Gc.  with  me  to  the  vault. 

Bal  I  dare  not,  sir : 

My  master,  knows  not,  but  I  am  gone  hence  ; 
And  fearfully  did  menace  me  with  death, 
If  I  did  stay  to  look  xon  his  intents. 

Fri.  Stay  then,  I'll  go  alone  : — Fear  comes  upon  me ; 
O,  much  I  fear  some  ill  unlucky  thing. 

Bal.  As  I  did  sleep  under  this  yew-tree  here, 
I  dreamt  my  master  and  another  fought, 
And  Oiat  my  master  slew  him. 

Fri.  Romeo ! —  [Advance* 

Alack,  alack,  what  blood  is  this,  which  stains 
The  stony  entrance  of  this  sepulchre  ? — 
What  mean  these  masterless  and  gory  swords 
To  lie  discolor'd  by  this  place  of  peace  ?          [Enters  Hie  monument. 
Romeo  !  O,  pale  !— Who  else  ?  what,  Paris  too  ? 
And  steep'd  in  blood  ? — Ah,  what  an  unkind  hour 
Is  guilty  of  this  lamentable  chance  ! — 
The  lady  stirs.  ^  [JULIET  wakes  and  slirs. 

Jul.  O,  comfortable  friar  !  where  is  my  ord  ? 
I  do  remember  well  where  I  should  be, 
And  there  I  am  :     Where  is  my  Romeo  ?  [Noise  within. 

Fri.  >  I  hear  some  noise. — Lady,  come  from  that  nest 
Of  death,  contagion,  and  unnatural  sleep  ; 
A  greater  Power  than  we  can  contradict 
Hath  thwarted  our  intents  ;  come,  come  away  : 
Thy  husband  in  thy  bosom* there  lies  dead  ; 
And  Paris  too ;  come,  I'll  dispose  of  thee 
Among  a  sisterhood  of  holy  nuns  ; 
Stay  not  to  question,  for  the  watch  is  coming ; 
Come,  go,  good  Juliet. — [Noise  again.}    I  dare  stay  no  longer. 

[Exit. 

Jul  Go,  get  thee  hence,  for  I  will  not  away: — 
What's  here  ?  a  cup,  clos'd  in  my  true  love's  hand  ? 
Poison,  I  see,  hath  been  his  timeless  end  : — • 
O  churl !  drink  all  ;  and  leave  no  friendly  drop, 
To  help  me  after  ? — I  will  kiss  thy  lips  ; 
Haply,  some  poison  yet  doth  hang  on  them, 

To  make  me  die  with  a  restorative.  [Kisses  him 

Thy  lips  are  warm  !,  • 

1st  Watch.  [Within.]  Lead; boy  : — Which  way? 

Jul.  Yea,  noise  ? — then  I'll  be  brief. — O  happy  dagger  !   ' 

[Snatching  ROMEO'S. dagger. 
This  is  thy  sheath ;  [Stabs  herself.]  there  rust,  and  let  me  die. 

f  Falls  on  ROMEO'S  body,  and  dies. 


HIE  MEECHANT  OF  VENICE. 


This  Play  is  justly  placed  among  the  most  perfect  of  Shakspeare's  compositions.  Tin 
master-piece  of  character,  as  exhibited  in  Shylock  the  Jew,  would  alone  entitle  it  to  thia 
classification. 

The  double  plot  of  this  Drama  was  borrowed  by  Shakspeare  from  traditionary  storiea 
current  in  his  time.  The  Jews  at  that  period  were  a  despised  and  persecuted  race  ;  the  Poet 
has  lent  himself  to  the  yrejndices  entertained  by  Christians  against  Jews,  and  yet  he  has 
made  Shylock  appear  as  the  champion  and  avenger  of  an  oppressed  people,  rather  than  the 
sordid  contemptible  character,  then  thought  to  be  the  distinctive  qualification  of  "  God's 
ancient  people." 
-ddt'd  


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 

DTJKE  OF  VENICE. 


ANTONIO,  the  Merchant  j)f  Venice. 

BASSANIO,  his  friend. 

SALANIO,  SALARINQ,  GRATIANO,  /n'ends  t<y  Antonio  and  Bassanio. 

LORENZO,  in  (UvtTwith  Jessica. 

SHYLOCK,  a  Jew.        ' 

TUBAL,  a  Jew,  his  friend. 

LATJNCELOT  GOBBO,  a  clown,  servant  to  Shylock 

Old  GOBBO,  father  to  Launcelot. 

SALERIO,  a  messenger  from  Venice. 

LEONARDO,  servant  to  Bassanio. 

BALTHAZAR,  STEPHANO,  servants  to  Portia. 

PORTIA,  a  rich  heiress. 
NERISSA,  her  wailing  -maid. 
JESSICA,  daughter  to  Shylock. 

HCagnificoes  of  Venice,  Officers  of  the  Court  of  Justice,  Gaoler,  Servants^ 
and  other  Attendants. 

SCENE,—  partly  at  VENICE,  and  partly  at  BELMONT,  the  Seat  of  PORTIA, 
.  •    ^  on  the  Continent. 


236  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 


>  ACT  I. 

SCENE  L— Venice.     A  Street. 
Enter  ANTONIO,  SALARINO,  and  SALAIW 

Ant.  In  uooth,  I  know  not  why  I  am  so  sad ; 
It  wearies  me  ;  you  say,  it  wearies  you  ; 
But  how  I  caught  it.  found  it,  or  came  by  it, 
What  stuff  'tis  made  of,  whereof  it  is  born, 
I  am  to  learn ; 

And  such  a  want-wit  sadness  makes  of  me, 
That  I  have  much  ado  to  know  myself. 

Salar.  Your  mind  is  tossing  on  the  ocean  ; 
There,  where  your  argosies  with  portly  sail,— 
Like  signiors  and  rich  burghers  of  the  flood, 
Or,  as  it  were,  the  pageants  of  the  sea, — 
Do  overpeer  the  petty  traffickers, 
That  curt'sy  to  them,  do  them  reverence, 
As  they  fly  by  them  with  their  woven  wings. 

Salem.  Believe  me,  sir,  had  I  such  venture  forth, 
The  better  part  of  my  affections  would 
Be  with  my  hopes  abroad.     I  should  be  still 
Plucking  the  grass,  to  know  where  sits  the  wind ; 
Peering  in  maps,  for  ports,  and  piers,  and  roads  ; 
And  every  object,  that  might  make  me  fear 
Misfortune  to  my  ventures,  out  of  doubt, 
Would  make  me  sad. 

Salar.  My  wind,  cooling  my  broth* 

Would  blow  me  to  an  ague,  when  I  thought 
What  harm  a  wind  too  great  might  do  at  sea. 
I  should  not  see  the  sandy  hour-glass  run; 
But  I  should  think  of  shallows  and  of  flats  ; 
And  see  my  wealthy  Andrew  dock'd  in  sand, 
Vailing  her  high-top  lower  than  her  ribs, 
To  kiss  her  burial.     Should  I  go  to  church, 
And  sec  the  holy  edifice  of  stone, 
And  not  bethink  me  straight  of  dangerous  rocks  ? 
Which  touching  but  my  gentle  vessel's  side, 
Would  scatter  all  her  spices  on  the  stream ; 
Enrobe  the  roaring  waters  with  my  silks  ; 
And,  in  a  word,  but  even  now  worth  this, 
And  now  worth  nothing  ?  Siiall  I  have  the  thought 
To  think  on  this  ;  and  shall  I  lack  the  thought, 
That  such  a  thing,  bechanc'd,  would  make  me  sad  ? 
But  tell  not  me  ;  I  know  Antonio 
Is  sad  to  think  upon  his  merchandise. 

Ant.  Believe  me,  no  :  I  thank  my  fortune  for  it, 
My  ventures  are  not  in  one  bottom  trusted, 


MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  237 

Nor  to  one  place  ;  nor  is  my  whole  estate 

Upon  the  fortune  )f  this  present  year  : 

Therefore,  my  merchandise  makes  me  not  sad.  ^ 

Satan.  Wiiy  then  you  are  in  love. 

Ant.  Fye,  fye ! 

Salan.  Not  in  love  neither  ?     Then  let's  say,  you  are  sad, 
Because  you  are  not  merry  :  and  'twere  as  easy 
For  you  to  laugh,  and  leap,  and  say,  you  are  merry, 
Because  you  are  not  sad.     Now,  by  the  two-headed  Janus, 
Nature  hath  fram'd  strange  fellows  in  her  time : 
Some  that  will  evermore  peep  through  their  eyes, 
And  laugh,  like  parrots,  at  a  bag-piper :  * 

And  other  of  such  vinegar  aspect, 
That  they'll  not  show  their  teeth  in  way  of  smile, 
Though  Nestor  swear  the  jest  be  laughable. 

Enter  BASSANIO,  LORENZO,  and  GRATIANO. 

Salan.  Here  comes  Bassanio,  your  most  noble  kinsman, 
Gratiano,  and  Lorenzo :  Fare  you  well ; 
We  leave  you  now  with  better  company. 

Salar.  I  would  have  staid  till  I  had  made  you  merry 
If  worthier  friends  had  not  prevented  me. 

,Ant.  Your  worth  is  very  dear  in  my  regard.  » 

I  take  it,  your  own  business  calls  on  you, 
And  you  embrace  the  occasion  to  depart. 

Salar.  Good  morrow,  my  good  lords. 

Bass.  Good  signiors  both,  when  shall  we  laugh  ?  Say,  when  ? 
'You  grow  exceeding  strange  :  Must  it  be  so  ? 

Salar.  We'll  make  our  leisures  to  attend  on  yours. 

[Exeunt  SALARINO,  and 

Lor.  My  lord  Bassanio,  since  you  have  found  Antonio, 
We  two  will  leave  you  :  but,  at  dinner  time, 
I  pray  you,  have  in  mind  where  we  must  meet. 

Bass.  I  will  not  fail  you. 

Gra.  You  look  not  well,  signior  Antonio  ; 
You  have  too  much  respect  upon  the  world  : 
They  lose  it,  that  do  buy  it  with  much  care. 
Believe  me,  you  are  marvellously  chang'd. 

Ant.  I  hold  the  world  but  as  the  world,  Gratiano ; 
A  stage,  where  every  man  must  play  a  part, 
And  mine  a  sad  one. 

Gra.  Let  pie  play  the  Fool : 

With  mirth  and  laughter  let  old  wrinkles  come. 
Why  should  a  man,  whose  blood  is  warm  within, 
Sit  like  his  graridsire  cut  in  alabaster  ? 
Sleep  when  he  wakes  ?  and  creep  into  the  jaundice 
By  being  peevish  ?  J  tell  thee  what,  Antonio, — 
I  love  thee,  and  it  is  my  love  that  speaks  ; — 
There  are  a  sort  of  men,  whose  visages 


238  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Do  cream  and  mantle,  like  a  standing  pond ; 

And  do  a  wilful  stillness  entertain, 

With  purpose  to  be  dress'd  in  an  opinion 

Of  wisdom,  gravity,  profound  conceit ; 

As  who  should  say,  /  am  Sir  Oracle, 

And,  when  I  ope  my  lips,  let  no  dog  bark  ! 

O,  my  Antonio,  I  do  know  of  these, 

That  therefore  only  are  reputed  wise, 

For  saying  nothing ;  who,  I  am  very  sure, 

If  they  should  speak,  would  almost  damn  those  ears, 

Which,  hearing  them,  would  call  their  brothers,  fools. 

I'll  tell  thee  more  of  this  another  time : 

But  fish  not,  with  this  melancholy  bait, 

For  this  fool's  gudgeon,  this  opinion. — 

Come,  good  Lorenzo  :  Fare  ye  well,  a  wJiile ; 

I'll  end  my  exhortation  after  dinner. 

Lor.  Well,  we  will  leave  you  then  till  dinner-time. 
I  must  be  one  of  these  same  dumb  wise  men, 
For  Gratiano  never  lets  me  speak. 

Gra.  Well,  keep  me  company  but  two  years  more, 
Thou  shalt  not  know  the  sound  of  thine  own  tongue. 

Ant.  Farewell :  I'll  grow  a  talker  for  this  gear. 
•   Gra.  Thanks,  i'  faith ;  for  silence  is  only  commendable 
In  a  neat's  tongue  dried,  and  a  maid  not  vendible. 

[Exeunt  GRATIANO,  and  LORESZU. 

Ant.  Is  that  any  thing  now  ? 

Bass.  Gratiano  speaks  an  infinite  deal  of  nothing,  more  than  any 
man  in  all  Venice :  His  reasons  are  as  two  grains  of  wheat  hid  in 
two  bushels  of  chaff;  you  shall  seek  all  day  ere  you  find  them  ;  and, 
when  you  have  them,  they  are  not  worth  the  search. 

Ant.  Well ;  tell  me  now,  what  lady  is  this  same, 
To  whom  you  swore  a  secret  pilgrimage, 
That  you  to-day  promis'd  to  tell  me  of  ? 

Bass.  'Tis  not  unknown  to  you,  Antonio, 
How  much  I  have  disabled  mine  estate, 
By  something  showing  a  more  swelling  port 
Than  my  faint  means  would  grant  continuance  : 
Nor  do  I  now  make  moan  to  be  abridg'd 
From  such  a  noble  rate  ;  but  my  chief  care 
Is,  to  come  fairly  off  from  the  great  debts. 
Wherein  my  time,  something  too  prodigal, 
Hath  left  me  gaged  :  To  you,  Antonio, 
I  owe  the  most,  in  money,  and  in  love  ; 
And  from  your  love  I  have  a  warranty 
To  unburden  all  my  plots,  and  purposes, 
How  to  get  clear  jf  all  the  debts  I  owe. 

Ant.  I  pray  you,  good  Bassanio,  let  me  know  it  9 
And,  if  it  stand,  as  you  yourself  still  do, 
Within  the  eye  of  honor,  be  assur'd 


MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  289 

My  purse,  my  person,  ray  extremest  means, 
Lie  all  unlock'd  to  your  occasions. 

Bass.  In  my  school-days,  when  I  had  lost  one  shaft, 
1  shot  his  fellow  of  the  self-same  flight 
The  self-same  way,  with  more  advised  watch, 
To  find  the  other  forth ;  and  by  advent'ring  both, 
I  oft  found  both  :  I  urge  this  childish  proof, 
Because  what  follows  is  pure  innocence. 
1  owe  you  much  ;  and,  like  a  wilful  youth, 
That  which  I  owe  is  lost :  but  if  you  please 
To  shoot  another  arrow  that  self  way 
Which  you  did  shoot  the  first,  I  do  not  doubt, 
As  I  will  watch  the  aim,  or  to  find  both, 
Or  bring  your  latter  hazard  back  again, 
And  thankfully  rest  debtor  for  the  first. 

Ant.  You  know  me  well,  and  herein  spend  but  time 
To  wind  about  my  love  with  circumstance  ; 
And,  out  of  doubt,  you  do  me  now  more  wrong, 
In  making  question  of  my  uttermost, 
Than  if  you  had  made  waste  of  all  I  have : 
Then  do  but  say  to  me  what  I  should  do, 
That  in  your  knowledge  may  by  me  be  done, 
And  I  am  prest  into  it :  therefore,  speak. 

Bass.  In  Belmont  is  a  lady  richly  left, 
And  she  is  fair,  and,  fairer  than  that  word,- 
Of  wond'rous  virtues ;  sometimes  from  her  eyes 
I  did  receive  fair  speechless  messages  : 
Her  name  is  Portia ;  nothing  undervalued 
To  Gate's  daughter,  Brutus'  Portia. 
Nor  is  the  wide  world  ignorant  of  her  worth ; 
For  the  four  winds  blow  in  from  every  coast 
Renowned  suitors  :  and  her1  sunny  locks 
Hang  on, her  temples  like  a  golden  fleece  ; 
Which  makes  her  seat  of  Belmont,  Colchos'  strand, 
And  many  Jasons  come  in  quest  of  her. 

0  my  Antonio,  had  I  but  the  means 
To  hold  a  rival  place  with  one  of  them. 

1  have  a  mind  presages  me  such  thrift, 
That  I  should  questionless  be  fortunate. 

Ant.  Thou  know'st,  that  all  my  fortunes  are  at  seas 
Nor  have  I  money,  nor  commodity 
To  raise  a  present  sum :  therefore  go  forth, 
Try  what  my  credit  can  in  Venice  do  ; 
That  shall  be  rack'd,  even  to  the  uttermost, 
To  furnish  thee  to  Belmont,  to  fair  Portia. 
Go,  presently  inquire,  and  so  will  I, 
Where  money  is ;  and  I  no  question  make, 
To  have  it  of  my  trust,  or  for  my  sake. 


240  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 


SCENE  II.— Belmont.     A  Room  in  PORTIA'S  House. 
Enter  PORTIA,  and  NERISSA. 

Por.  By  my  troth,  Nerissa,  my  little  body  is  a-weary  of  this  great 
world. 

Ner.  You  would  be,  sweet  madam,  if  your  miseries  were  in  the 
same  abundance  as  your  good  fortunes  are :  And  yet,  for  aught  I 
see,  they  are  as  sick  that  surfeit  with  too  much,  as  they  that  starve 
with  nothing :  It  is  no  mean  happiness,  therefore,  to  be  seated  in  the 
mean ;  superfluity  comes  sooner  by  white  hairs,  but  competency  lives 
longer. 

Por.  Good  sentences,  and  well  pronounced. 

Ner.  They  would  be  better,  if  well  followed. 

Por.  If  to  do  were  as  easy  as  to  know  what  were  good  to  do, 
chapels  had  been  churches,  and  poor  men's  cottages,  princes'  palaces. 
It  is  a  good  divine  that  follows  his  own  instructions :  I  can  easier 
teach  twenty  what  were  good  to  be  done,  than  be  one  of  the  twenty 
to  follow  mine  own  teaching.  The  brain  may  devise  laws  for  the 
blood ;  but  a  hot  temper  leaps  over  a  cold  decree  :  such  a  hare  is 
madness,  the  youth,  to  skip  o'er  the  meshes  of  good  counsel,  the 
cripple.  But  this  reasoning  is  not  in  the  fashion  to  choose  me  a 
husband  : — O  me,  the  word  choose  !  I  may  neither  choose  whom  I 
would,  nor  refuse  whom  I  dislike  ;  so  is  the  will  of  a  living  daughter 
curb'd  by  the  will  of  a  dead  father  : — Is  it  not  hard,  Nerissa,  that  I 
cannot  choose  one,  nor  refuse  none  ? 

Ner.  Your  father  was  ever  virtuous  ;  and  holy  men,  at  their  death, 
have  good  inspirations  ;  therefore,  the  lottery,  that  he  hath  devised  in 
these  three  chests,  of  gold,  silver,  and  lead,  (whereof  who  chooses 
his  meaning,  chooses  you,)  will,  no  doubt,  never  be  chosen  by  any 
rightly,  but  one  who  you  shall  rightly  love.  But  what  warmth  is 
there  in  your  affection  towards  any  of  these  princely  suitors  that  are 
already  come  ? 

Por.  I  pray  thee,  overname  them  ;  and  as  thou  namest  them,  I 
will  describe  them  ;  and  according  to  my  description,  level  at  my  af- 
fection. 

Ner.  First,  there  is  the  Neapolitan  prince. 

Por.  Ay,  that's  a  colt,  indeed,  for  he  does  nothing  but  talk  of  his 
horse  ;  and  he  makes  it.  a  great  appropriation  to  his  own  good  parts, 
that  he  can  shoe  him  himself. 

Ner.  Then,  is  there  the  county  Palatine. 

Por.  He  doth  nothing  but  frown ;  as  who  should  say,  And  if  you 
will  not  have  me,  choose:  he  hears  merry  tales,  and  smiles  not:  I 
fear,  he  will  prove  the  weeping  philosopher  when  he  grows  old,  being 
BO  full  of  unmannerly  sadness  in  his  youth?  I  had  rather  be  married 
to  a  death's  head  with  a  bone  in  his  mouth,  than  to  either  of  these. 
Heaven  defend  me  from  these  two  ! 

Ner.  How  say  you  by  the  French  lord,  Monsieur  Le  Bon  ? 

Por.  Heaven  made  him,  and  therefore  let  him  pass  for  a  man. 

Ner.  You  need  not  fear,  lady,  the  having  any  of  these  lords  ;  they 


MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  241 

have  acquainted  me  with  their  determinations  :  which  is,  indeed,  to 
return  to  their  home,  and  to  trouble  you  with  no  more  suit ;  unless, 
you  may  be  won  by  some  other  sort  than  your  father's  imposition, 
depending  on  Ihe  caskets. 

For.  If  I  live  to  be  as  old  as  Sibylla,  I  will  die  as  chaste  as  Diana, 
unless  I  be  obtained  by  the  manner  of  my  father's  will :  I  am  glad 
this  parcel  of  wooers  are  so  reasonable  ;  for  there  is  not  one  among 
them  but  I  dote  on  his  very  absence,  and  I  pray  Heaven  grant  them 
a  fair  departure. 

Ner.  Do  you  not  remember,  lady,  in  your  father's  time,  a  Vene. 
tian,  a.  &cholar,  and  a  soldier,  that  came  hither  in  company  of  the 
Marquis  of  Montferrat  ? 

Por.  Yes,  yes,  it  was  Bassanio ;  as  I  think,  so  was  he  called. 

Ner.  True,  madam  ;  he,  of  all  the  men  that  ever  my  foolish  eyes 
looked  upon,  was  the  best  deserving  a  fair  lady. 

Por.  I  remember  him  well ;  and  I  remember  him  worthy  of  thy 
praise. — How  now  !  what  news  ? 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Sere.  The  four  strangers  seek  for  you,  madam,  to  take  their  leave : 
and  there  is  a  fore-runner  come  from  a  fifth,  the  prince  of  Morocco ; 
who  brings  word,  the  prince,  his  master,  will  be  here  to-night. 

Por.  If  I  could  bid  the  fifth  welcome  with  so  good  heart  as  I  can 
bid  the  other  four  farewell,  I  should  be  glad  of  his  approach.  Come, 
Nerissa. — Sirrah,  go  before. — Whiles  we  shut  the  gate  upon  one 
wooer,  another  knocks  at  the  door.  [Exeunt 

SCENE  III.— Venice.     A  public  Place. 
Enter  BASSANIO  and  SHYLOCK. 

Shy.  Three  thousand  ducats, — well. 

Bass.  Ay,  sir,  for  three  months. 

Shy.  For  three  months, — well. 

Bass.  For  the  which,  as  I  told  you,  Antonio  shall  be  bound. 

Shy.  Antonio  shall  become  bound, — well. 

Bass.  May  you  stead  me  ?     Will  you  pleasure  me  ? 
Shall  I  know  your  answer  ? 

Shy.  Three  thousand  ducats,  for  three  months,  and  Antonio 
bound. 

Bass.  Your  answer  to  that. 

Shy.  Antonio  is  a  good  man. 

Bass.  Have  you  heard  any  imputation  to  the  contrary  ? 

Shy.  Ho,  no,  no,  no,  no ; — my  meaning,  in  saying  he  is  a  good 
man,  is  to  have  you  understand  me,  that  he  is  sufficient :  yet  his 
means  are  in  supposition :  he  hath  an  argosy  bound  to  Tripolis, 
another  to  the  Indies ;  I  understand  moreover  upon  the  Rialto,  he 

hath  a  third  at  Mexico,  a  fourth  for  England, and  other  ventures 

he  hath,  squander'd  abroad ;  But  ships  are  but  boards,  sailors  but 
men :  there  be  land-rats,  and  water-rats,  water-thieves,  and  land- 

12 


242  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

thieves ;  I  mean,  pirates  ;  and  then,  there  is  the  peril  of  water,  winds, 
and  rocks  :  The  man  is,  notwithstanding,  sufficient ; — three  thousand 
ducats ; — I  think,  I  may  take  his  bond. 

Bass.  Be  assured  you  may. 

Shy.  I  will  be  assured,  I  may ;  and,  that  I  may  be  assured,  I  will 
bethink  me  :  May  I  speak  with  Antonio  ? 

Bass.  If  it  please  you,  dine  with  us. 

Shy.  Yes,  to  smell  pork  ;  I  will  buy  with  you,  sell  with  you,  talk 
with  you,  wa«lk  with  you,  and  so  following :  but  I  will  not  eat  with 
you,  drink  with  you,  nor  pray  with  you.  What  news  on  the  Rialto  1 
— Who  is  he  comes  here  ? 

Enter  ANTONIO. 

Bass.  This  is  signior  Antonio. 

Shy.  [Aside.]  How  like  a  fawning  publican  he  looks ! 
I  hate  him,  for  he  is  a  Christian  : 
But  more,  for  that,  in  low  simplicity, 
He  lends  out  money  gratis,  and  brings  down 
The  rate  of  usance  here  with  us  in  Venice. 
If  I  can  catch  him  once  upon  the  hip, 
I  will  feed  fat  the  ancient  grudge  I  bear  him. 
He  hates  our  sacred  nation  ;  and  he  rails, 
Even  there  where  merchants  most  do  congregate, 
On  me,  my  bargains,  and  my  well-won  thrift, 
Which  he  calls  interest :  Cursed  be  my  tribe, 
If  I  forgive  him  ! 

Bass.  Shylock,  do  you  hear  ? 

Shy.  I  am  debating  of  my  present  store  : 
And,  by  the  near  guess  of  my  memory, 
I  cannot  instantly  raise  up  the  gross 
Of  full  three  thousand  ducats :  What  of  that  ? 
Tubal,  a  wealthy  Hebrew  of  my  tribe, 
Will  furnish  me  :  but  soft ;  How  many  months 
Do  you  desire  ? — Rest  you  fair,  good  signior  :  [Tb  ANTOHIO. 

Your  worship  was  the  last  man  in  our  mouths. 

Ant.  Shylock,  albeit  I  neither  lend  nor  borrow, 
By  taking,  nor  by  giving  of  excess, 
Yet,  to  supply  the  ripe  wants  of  my  friend, 
I'll  break  a  custom  : — Is  he  yet  possess'd, 
How  much  you  would  ? 

Shy.  Ay,  ay,  three  thousand  ducats. 

Ant.  And  for  three  months. 

Shy.  I  had  forgot, — three  months,  you  told  me  so. 

Well  then,  your  bond  ;  and,  let  me  see, But  hear  you  : 

Methought,  you  said,  you  neither  lend,  nor  borrow, 
Upon  advantage. 

Ant.  I  do  never  use  it. 

Shy.  Three  thousand  ducats — 'tis  a  good  round  sum, 
Three  months  from  twelve,  then  let  me  see  the  rate. 


MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  243 

Ant.  Well,  Shylock,  shall  we  be  beholden  to  you  ) 

Shy.  Signior  Antonio,  many  a  time  and  oft, 
In  the  Rialto  you  have  rated  me 
About  my  monies,  and  my  usances  : 
Still  have  I  borne  it  with  a  patient  shrug ; 
For  sufferance  is  the  badge  of  all  our  tribe  : 
You  call  me — misbeliever,  cut-throat  dog, 
And  spit  upon  my  Jewish  gaberdine, 
And  all  for  use  of  that  which  is  mine  own. 
Well  then,  it  now  appears,  you  need  my  help : 
Go  to  then  ;  you  come  to  me,  and  you  say, 
Shylock,  we  would  have  monies  ;  You  say  so  ; 
You,  that  did  void  your  rheum  upon  my  beard. 
And  foot  me,  as  you  spur  a  stranger  cur 
Over  your  threshold  ;  monies  is  your  suit. 
What  should  I  say  to  you  ?     Should  I  not  say, 
Hath  a  dog  money  ?  is  it  possible, 
A  cur  can  lend  three  thousand  ducats  1  or 
Shall  I  bend  low,  and  in  a  bondsman's  key, 
With  'bated  breath,  and  whispering  humbleness, 

Say  this, 

Fair  sir,  you  spit  on  me  on  Wednesday  last : 
You  spurn* d  me  such  a  day ;  another  time 
You  calVd  me — dog  ;  Undfor  these  courtesies 
ril  lend  you  thus  much  monies. 

Ant.  I  am  as  like  to  call  thee  so  again, 
To  spit  on  thee  again,  to  spurn  thee  too. 
If  thou  wilt  lend  this  money,  lend  it  not 
As  to  thy  friends  ;  (for  when  did  friendship  take 
A  breed  for  barren  metal  of  his  friend  ?) 
But  lend  it  rather  to  thine  enemy ; 
Who,  if  he  break,  thou  may'st  with  better  face 
Exact  the  penalty. 

Shy.  Why,  look  you,  how  you  storm ! 

I  would  be  friends  with  you,  and  have  your  love, 
Forget  the  shames  that  you  have  stain'd  me  with, 
Supply  your  present  wants,  and  take  no  doit 
Of  usance  for  my  monies,  and  you'll  not  hear  me  : 
This  is  kind  I  offer. 

Ant.  This  were  kindness. 

Shy.  This  kindness  will  I  show  >- 

Go  with  me  to  a  notary,  seal  me  there 
Your  single  bond ;  and,  in  a  merry  sport, 
If  you  repay  me  not  on  such  a  day, 
In  such  a  place,  such  sum,  or  sums,  as  are 
Express'd  in  the  condition,  let  the  forfeit 
Be  nominated  for  an  equal  pound 
Of  your  fair  flesh,  to  be  cut  off  and  taken 
In  what  part  of  your  body  pleaseth  me. 


244  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Ant.  Content,  in  faith ;  I'll  seal  to  such  a  bond, 
And  say,  there  is  much  kindness  in  the  Jew. 

Bass.  You  shall  not  seal  to  such  a  bond  for  me, 
I'll  rather  dwell  in  my  necessity. 

Ant.  Why,  fear  not,  man  ;  I  will  not  forfeit  it. 
•Within  these  two  months,  that's  a  month  before 
This  bond  expire's,  I  do  expect  return 
Of  thrice  three  times  the  value  of  this  bond. 

Shy.  O  father  Abraham,  what  these  Christians  are, 
Whose  own  hard  dealings  teaches  them  suspect 
The  thoughts  of  others  !     Pray  you,  tell  me  this  ; 
If  he  should  break  his  day,  what  should  I  gain 
By  the  exaction  of  the  forfeiture  ? 
A  pound  of  man's  flesh,  taken  from  a  man, 
Is  not  so  estimable,  profitable  neither, 
As  flesh  of  muttons,  beefs,  or  goats.     I  say, 
To  buy  his  favor,  I  extend  this  friendship ; 
If  he  will  take  it,  so  ;  if  not,  adieu ; 
And,  for  my  love,  I  pray  you,  wrong  me  not. 

Ant.  Yes,  Shylock,  I  will  seal  unto  this  bond. 

Shy.  Then  meet  me  forthwith  at  the  notary's ; 
Give  him  direction  for  this  merry  bond, 
And  I  will  go  and  purse  the  ducats  straight ; 
See  to  my  house,  left  in  the  fearful  guard 
Of  an  unthrifty  knave;  and  presently 
I  will  be  with  you.  [Exit. 

Ant.  Hie  thee,  gentle  Jew. 

This  Hebrew  will  turn  Christian  ;  he  grows  kind. 

Bats.  I  like  r.ot  fair  terms,  and  a  villain's  mind. 

Ant.  Come  on ;  in  this  there  can  be  no  dismay, 
My  ships  come  home  a  month  before  the  day.  [Exeunt. 

ACT    II. 

Bassanio  obtains  the  loan  of  three  thousand  ducats  from  Shylock,  on  the  merchant's 
bond,  with  the  penalty  of  "  the  pound  of  flesh,"  as  the  forfeit  for  non-payment.  He  then 
prepares  for  making  proposals  for  Portia's  hand,  but  previous  to  his  departure  he  invites  hit 
friends  to  an  entertainment : — Shylock  is  also  one  of  the  invited  guests. 

Launcelot,  a  former  domestic  of  the  Jew's,  has  entered  into  the  service  of  Bassanio, 
and  is  made  the  messenger  between  Lorenzo  and  Jessica,  who  have  planned  an  elop» 
nent,  while  SbyJock  is  engaged  at  Bassanio's  feast. 

SCENE  V.—The  same.     Before  Shylock's  House. 
Enter  SHYLOCK,  and  LAUNCELOT. 

Shy.  Well,  thou  shalt  see,  thy  eyes  shall  be  thy  judge, 
The  difference  of  old  Shylock  and  Bassanio : — 
What,  Jessica  ! — thou  shalt  not  gormandize, 
As  thou  hast  done  with  me ;— What,  Jessica ! — 


MERCHANT   OF    VENICE.  245 

And  sleop  and  snore,  and  rend  apparel  out ; — 
Why,  Jessica,  I  suy  ! 

Laun.  Why,  Jessica ! 

Shy.  Who  bids  thee  call  ?  I  did  not  bid  thee  call. 

Laun.  Your  worship  was  wont  to  tell  me,  I  could  do  nothing  with* 
out  bidding. 

Enter  JESSICA. 

Jes.  Call  you  ?  What  is  your  will  ? 

Shy.  I  am  bid  forth  to  supper,  Jessica  ; 
There  are  my  keys  : — But  wherefore  should  I  go  ? 
I  am  not  bid  for  love  ;  they  flatter  me  : 
But  yet  I'll  go  in  hate,  to  feed  upon 
The  prodigal  Christian. — Jessica,  my  girl, 
Look  to  my  house  : — I  am  right  loath  to  go ; 
There  is  some  ill  a  brewing  towards  my  rest, 
For  1  did  dream  of  money-bags  toMiight. 

Laun.  I  beseech  you,  sir,  go  on ;  my  young  master  doth  expect 
your  reproach. 

Shy.  So  do  I  his. 

Laun.  And  they  have  conspired  together, — I  will  not  say,  you 
rhall  see  a  masque ;  but  if  you  do,  then  it  was  not  for  nothing  that 
my  nose  fell  a  bleeding  on  Black-Monday  last,  at  six  o'clock  i'  the 
morning,  falling  out  that  year  on  Ash- Wednesday,  was  four  year  in 
the  afternoon. 

Shy.  What :  are  there  masques  ?  Hear  you  me,  Jessica  :  _ 
Lock  up  my  doors  ;  and  when  you  hear  the  drum, 
And  the  vile  squeaking  of  the  wry-neck'd  fife, 
Clamber  not  vou  up  to  the  casements  then, 
Nor  thrust  your  head  into  the  public  street, 
To  gaze  on  Christian  fools  with  varnish'd  faces. 
But  stop  my  house's  ears,  I  mean  my  casements ; 
Let  not  the  sound  of  shallow  foppery  enter 
My  sober  house. — By  Jacob's  staff,  I  swear, 
I  have  no  mind  of  feasting  forth  to-night : 
But  I  will  go. — Go  you  before  me,  sirrah ; 
Say,  I  will  come. 

Laun.  1  will  go  before,  sir. — 

Mistress,  look  out  at  window,  for  all  this  ;  [Aside. 

There  will  come  a  Christian  by, 
Will  be  worth  a  Jewess'  eye.  LExit  LAUN, 

Shy.  What  says  that  fool  of  Hagar's  offspring,  ha  ? 

Jes.  His  words  were,  Farewell,  mistress  ;  nothing  else. 

Shy.  The  patch  is  kind  enough  ;  but  a  huge  feeder, 
Snail-slow  in  profit,  and  he  sleeps  by  day 
More  than  the  wild  cat ;  drones  hive  not  with  me ; 
Therefore  I  part  with  him ;  and  part  with  him 
To  one  that  I  would  have  him  help  to  waste 
His  borrow'd  purse. — Well,  Jessica,  go  in ; 


246  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Perhaps,  I  will  return  immediately ; 

Do,  as  I  bid  you, 

Shut  doors  after  you  :  Fast  bind,  fast  find ; 

A  proverb  never  stale  in  thrifty  mind.  [Exit 

Jes.  Farewell ;  and  if  my  fortune  be  not  crost, 
I  have  a  father,  you  a  daughter  lost.  [Exit. 

Jessica  elopes  with  Lorenzo,  carrying  with  her  large  sums  of  money,  anc.  valuable  jew- 
els belonging  to  her  father. 

ACT  III. 

Shylock  is  introduced  in  the  following  powerfully  wrought  scene  smarting  under  hia 
losses,  and  the  want  of  duty  in  his  daughter.  He  has  also  learned  that  Antonio  theMer- 
shant,  has  suffered  severe  losses  at  sea,  and  instigated  by  revenge  he  determines  to  enforce 
the  "  full  penalty  "  of  the  Bond. 

SCENE  I.— A  street  in  Venice. 
Enter  SALANIO,  and  SALARINO. 

Salar.  Why  man,  I  saw  Bassanio  under  sail ; 
With  him  is  Gratiano  gone  along ; 
And  in  their  ship,  I  am  sure,  Lorenzo  is  not. 

Solan.  The  villain  Jew  with  outcries  rais'd  the  duke ; 
Who  went  with  him  to  search  Bassanio's  ship. 
I  never  heard  a  passion  so  confus'd, 
So  strange,  outrageous,  and  so  variable, 
As  the  dog  Jew  did  utter  in  the  streets  : 
My  daughter ! — O  my  ducats  ! — O  my  daughter ! 
Fled  with  a  Christian  ? — O  my  Christian  ducats  /— 
Justice !  the  law  !  my  ducats  and  my  daughter ! 
Let  good  Antonio  look  he  keep  his  day, 
Or  he  shall  pay  for  this. 
Now,  what  news  on  the  Rialto  ? 

Salar.  Why,  yet  it  lives  there  uncheck'd,  that  Antonio  hath  a  ship 
of  rich  lading  wreck'd  on  the  narrow  seas ;  the  Goodwins,  I  think 
they  call  the  place  ;  a  very  dangerous  flat,  and  fatal,  where  the  car- 
cases of  many  a  tall  ship  lie  buried,  as  they  say,  if  my  gossip  report 
be  an  honest  woman  of  her  word. 

Salan.  I  would  she  were  as  lying  a  gossip  in  that,  as  ever  knapp'd 
ginger,  or  made  her  neighbors  believe  she  wept  for  the  death  of  a 
third  husband:  But  it  is  true, — without  any  slips  of  prolixity,  or 
crossing  the  plain  highway  of  talk, — that  the  good  Antonio,  the 
honest  Antonio,— O  that  I  had  a  title  good  enough  to  keep  his 
name  company ! — 

Salar.  Come,  the  full  stop. 

Salan.  Ha,— what  say'st  thou  ?— Why  the  end  is  he  hath  lost  a 
ehip. 

Salar.  I  would  it  might  prove  the  end  of  his  losses ! 


MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  247 

SaJan.  Let  me  say  amen  betimes,  lest  the  devil  cross  my  prayer 
for  here  he  comes  in  the  likeness  of  a  Jew. — 

Enter  SHYLOCK. 

How  now,  Shylock  ?  what  news  among  the  merchants  ? 

Shy.  You  knew,  none  so  well,  none  so  well  as  you,  of  my  daugh- 
ter's flight. 

Salar.  That's  certain ;  I,  for  my  part,  knew  the  tailor  that  made 
the  wings  she  flew  withal. 

Solan.  And  Shylock,  for  his  own  part,  knew  the  bird  was  fledg'd ; 
and  then  it  is  the  complexion  of  them  all  to  leave  the  dam. 

Shy.  She  is  damn'd  for  it. 

Sdlar.  That's  certain,  if  the  devil  may  be  her  judge. 

Sky.  My  own  flesh  and  blood  to  rebel ! 

Salan.  Out  upon  it,  old  carrion  !  rebels  it  at  these  years  ? 

Shy.  I  say,  my  daughter  is  my  flesh  and  blood. 

'Salar.  There  is  more  difference  between  thy  flesh  and  hers,  tnan 
between  jet  and  ivory  ;  more  between  your  bloods,  than  there  is  be- 
tween red  wine  and  rhenish :  But  tell  us,  do  you  hear  whether 
Antonio  have  had  any  loss  at  sea  or  no  ? 

Shy.  There  I  have  another  bad  match :  a  bankrupt,  a  prodigal, 
who  dare  scarce  show  his  head  on  the  Rialto  ; — a  beggar,  that  used 
to  come  so  smug  upon  the  mart ;  let  him  look  to  his  bond  :  he  was 
wont  to  call  me  usurer ; — let  him  look  to  his  bond  !  he  was  wont  to 
lend  money  for  a  Christian  courtesy ! — let  him  look  to  his  bond. 

Solar.  Why,  I  am  sure,  if  he  forfeit,  thou  wilt  not  take  his  flesh ; 
What's  that  good  for  ? 

Shy.  To  bait  fish  withal :  if  it  will  feed  nothing  else,  it  will  feed 
my  revenge.  He  hath  disgraced  me,  and  hindered  me  of  half  a 
million  ;  laughed  at  my  losses,  mocked  at  my  gains,  scorned  my  na- 
tion, thwrarted  my  bargains,  cooled  my  friends,  heated  mine  enemies  ; 
and  what's  his  reason  ?  I  am  a  Jew :  Hath  not  a  Jew  eyes  ?  hath 
not  a  Jew  hands,  organs,  dimensions,  senses,  affections,  passions  ? 
fed  with  the  same  food,  hurt  with  the  same  weapons,  subject  to  the 
same  diseases,  healed  by  the  same  means,  warmed  and  cooled  by  the 
same  winter  and  summer,  as  a  Christian  is  ?  if  you  prick  us,  do  we 
not  bleed  ?  if  you  tickle  us,  do  we  not  laugh  ?  if  you  poison  us,  do 
tve  not  die  ?  and  if  you  wrong  us,  shall  we  not  revenge  ?  if  we  are 
like  you  in  the  rest,  we  will  resemble  you  in  that.  If  a  Jew  wrong 
a  Christian,  what  is  his  humility  ?  revenge  ;  If  a  Christian  wrong  a 
Jew,  what  should  his  sufferance  be  by  Christian  example  ?  why,  re- 
venge. The  villany  you  teach  me,  I  will  execute ;  and  it  shall  go 
hard,  but  I  will  better  the  instruction. 

Enter  TUBAL. 

Salan.  Here  comes  another  of  the  tribe ;  a  third  cannot  be  matched, 
unless  the  devil  himself  turn  Jew.  [Exeunt  SALAN.  cf«  SALAR. 

Shy.  How  now,  Tubal,  what  news  from  Genoa  ?  hast  thou  found 
my  daughter  ? 


248  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Tub.  I  often  came  where  I  did  hear  of  her,  but  cannot  find  her, 

Shy.  Why  there,  there,  there,  there  !  a  diamond  gone,  cost  m«! 
two  thousand  ducats  in  Frankfort !  The  curse  never  fell  upon  oui 
nation  till  now  !  I  never  felt  it  till  now ; — two  thousand  ducats  ir 
that ;  and  other  precious,  precious  jewels. — I  would  my  daugbtei 
were  dead  at  my  foot,  and  the  jewels  in  her  ear  !  'would  she  were 
hears'd  at  my  foot,  and  the  ducats  in  her  coffin  !  No  news  of  them  ? 
— Why,  so : — and  I  know  not  what's  spent  in  the  search :  Why, 
thou  loss  upon  loss !  the  thief  gone  with  so  much,  and  so  much  to 
find  the  thief;  and  no  satisfaction,  no  revenge  :  nor  no  ill  luck  stir- 
ring, but  what  lights  o'  my  shoulders  ;  no  sighs,  but  o'  my  breath- 
ing ;  no  tears,  but  o'  my  shedding. 

Tub.  Yes,  other  men  have  ill  luck  too ;  Antonio,  as  I  heard  in 
Genoa, — 

Shy.  What,  what,  what  ?  ill  luck,  ill  luck  ? 

Tub.  — hath  an  argosy  cast  away,  coming  from  Tripolis. 

Shy.  I  thank  Heaven,  T  thank  Heaven  : — Is  it  true,  is  it  true  ? 

Tub.  I  spoke  with  some  of  the  sailors  that  escaped  the  wreck. 

Shy.  I  thank  thee,  good  Tubal ; — Good  news,  good  news :  ha ! 
ha ! — Where  ?  in  Genoa  ? 

Tub.  Your  daughter  spent  in  Genoa,  as  I  heard,  one  night,  four- 
score ducats  ! 

Shy.  Thou  stick'st  a  dagger  in  me  : 1  shall  never  see  my  gold 

again :  Fourscore  ducats  at  a  sitting  !  fourscore  ducats  ! 

Tub.  There  came  divers  of  Antonio's  creditors  in  my  company  t(- 
Venice,  that  swear  he  cannot  choose  but  break. 

Shy.  I  am  very  glad  of  it :  I'll  plague  him ;  I'll  torture  him ;  I  am 
glad  of  it. 

Tub.  One  of  them  showed  me  a  ring,  that  he  had  of  your  daughter 
for  a  monkey. 

Shy.  Out  upon  her  !  Thou  torturest  me,  Tubal :  it  was  my  tur- 
quoise ;  I  had  it  of  Leah,  when  I  was  a  bachelor  :  I  would  not  have 
given  it  for  a  wilderness  of  monkeys. 

Tub.  But  Antonio  is  certainly  undone. 

Shy.  Nay,  that's  true,  that's  very  true :  Go,  Tubal,  fee  me  an 
officer,  bespeak  him  a  fortnight  before :  I  will  have  the  heart  of  him, 
if  he  forfeit ;  for  were  he  out  of  Venice,  I  can  make  what  merchan- 
dise I  will :  Go,  go,  Tubal,  and  meet  me  at  our  synagogue ;  go,  good 
Tubal ;  at  our  synagogue,  Tubal.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— Belmont.     A  Room  in  Portia's  House. 

Enter  BASSANIO,  PORTIA,  GRATIANO,  NERISSA,  and  Attendants 
The  caskets  are  set  out. 

For.  I  pray  you,  tarry  ;  pause  a  day  or  two, 
Before  you  hazard ;  for,  in  choosing  wrong, 
I  lose  your  company ;  therefore,  forbear  a  while  : 
There's  something  tells  me,  (but  it  is  not  love,) 
I  would  not  lose  you ;  and  you  know  yourself, 


MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  219 

Hate  counsels  not  in  such  a  quality  : 

I  could  teach  you 

How  to  choose  right,  but  then  I  am  forsworn  ; 

So  will  I  never  be  :  so  may  yon  miss  me  ; 

But  if  you  do,  you'll  make  me  wish  a  sin, 

That  I  had  been  forsworn. 

Bass.  Let  me  choose  ; 

PIT,  as  I  am,  I  live  upon  the  rack. 

Por.  Upon  the  rack,  Bassanio  ?  then  confess 
What  treason  there  is  mingled  with  your  love. 

Bass.  None,  but  that  ugly  treason  of  mistrust, 
Which  makes  me  fear  the  enjoying  of  my  love ; 
There  may  as  well  be  amity  and  life 
'Tween  snow  and  fire,  as  treason  and  my  love. 

Por.  Ay,  but  I  fear,  you  speak  upon  the  rack, 
Where  men  enforced  do  speak  any  thing. 

Bass.  Promise  me  life,  and  I'll  confess  the  truth. 

Por.  Well  then,  confess,  and  live. 

Bass.  Confess,  and  love, 

Had  been  the  very  sum  of  my  confession  : 
O  happy  torment,  when  my  torturer 
Doth  teach  me  answers  for  deliverance  ! 
But  let  me  to  my  fortune  and  the  caskets. 

Por.  Away  then :  I  am  lock'd  in  one  of  them  ; 
If  you  do  love  me,  you  will  find  me  out. — 
Nerissa,  and  the  rest,  stand  all  aloof. — 
Let  music  sound,  while  he  doth  make  his  choice  ; 
Then,  if  he  lose,  he  makes  a  swan-like  end, 
Fading  in  music. 

Music,  whilst  BASSANIO  comments  on  the  caskets  to  himself. 
SONG.  1.   Tel\  me  where  is  fancy  bred, 

Or  in  the  heart,  or  in  the  head  ? 
How  begot,  how  nourished  ? 
Reply.    2.    It  is  engendered  in  the  eyes, 

With  gazing  fed :  and  fancy  dies 
In  the  cradle  where  it  lies  : 

Let  us  all  ring  fancy's  knell , 
Pit  begin  it,  Ding,  dong,  bell. 
All.  Ding,  dong,  bell. 

Bass.  Some  good  direct  my  judgment ! — Let  me  see. — 
"  Who  chooseth  me,  shall  gain  what  many  men  desire." 

[Locks  at  the  golden  casket 
That  may  be  meant 

Of  the  fool  multitude,  that  choose  by  show : 
The  world  is  still  deceiv'd  with  ornament. 
In  law,  what  plea  so  tainted  and  corrupt, 
But,  being  season'd  with  a  gracious  voice, 
Obscures  the  show  of  evil  ?     In  religion, 
12* 


250  SIIAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

What  dangerous  error,  but  some  sober  brow 

Will  bless  it,  and  approve  it  with  a  text, 

Hiding  the  grossness  with  fair  ornament  ? 

There  is  no  vice  so  simple,  but  assumes 

Some  mark  of  virtue  on  his  outward  parts. 

How  many  cowards,  whose  hearts  are  all  as  false 

As  stairs  of  sand,  wear  yet  upon  their  chin 

The  beards  of  Hercules,  and  frowning  Mars  : 

Who,  inward  search'd,  have  livers  white  as  milk  ? 

And  these  assume  but  valor's  countenance, 

To  render  them  redoubted.     Look  on  beauty, 

And  you  shall  see  'tis  purchased  by  the  weight ; 

Which  therein  works  a  miracle  in  nature, 

Making  them  lightest  that  wear  most  of  it : 

Thus  ornament  is  but  the  guiled  shore 

To  a  most  dangerous  sea  ;  the  beauteous  scarf 

Veiling  an  Indian  beauty  ;  in  a  word, 

The  seeming  truth  which  cunning  times  put  on 

To  entrap  the  wisest.     Therefore,  thou  gaudy  gold, 

Hard  food  for  Midas,  I  will  none  of  thee : 

"  Who  chooseth  me  shall  get  as  much  as  he  deserves." 

[Looks  at  the  silvr  casket* 
And  well  said,  too  ;  for  who  shall  go  about 
To  cozen  fortune,  and  be  honorable 
Without  the  stamp  of  merit  ? 
Oh,  that  estates,  degrees,  and  offices, 
Were  not  derived  corruptly  !  and  that  clear  honor 
Were  purchased  by  the  merit  of  the  wearer  ! 
How  many  then  should  cover,  that  stand  bare  ? 
How  many  be  commanded,  that  command  ? 
And  how  much  honor, 
Picked  from  the  chaff  and  ruin  of  the  times, 
To  be  new  varnished  ? — "  Much  as  he  deserves." — 
I'll  not  assume  desert. — 
"  Who  chooseth  me  must  give  and  hazard  all  he  hath." 

[Looks  at  the  leaden  caske* 
I'll  none  of  thee,  thou  pale  and  common  drudge 
'Tween  man  and  man :  but  thou,  thou  meagre  lead, 
Which  rather  threat'nest,  than  doth  promise  aught, 
Thy  plainness  moves  me  more  than  eloquence, 
And  here  choose  I ;  Joy  be  the  consequence  ! 
Par.  How  all  the  other  passions  fleet  to  air, 
As  doubtful  thoughts,  and  rash-embrac'd  despair, 
And  shudd'ring  fear,  and  green-ey'd  jealousy. 

0  love,  be  moderate,  allay  thy  ecstasy, 

In  measure  rain  tny  joy,  scant  this  excess ; 

1  feel  too  much  thy  blessing,  make  it  less, 
For  fear  I  surfeit ! 

Bass.  What  find  I  here  ?  [Opening  the  leaden  casket 


* 

MERCHANT   OF   VENICE.  251 

Fair  Portia's  counterfeit  ?     What  demi-god 
Hath  come  so  near  creation  ?     Here's  the  scroll, 
The  continent  and  summary  of  my  fortune. 

You  that  choose  not  by  the  view, 
Chance  as  fair,  and  choose  as  true! 
Since  this  fortune  falls  to  you, 
Be  content,  and  seek  no  new. 
If  you  be  well  pleased  with  this, 
And  hold  your  fortune  for  your  bliss, 
Turn  you  where  your  lady  is, 
And  claim  her  with  a  loving  kiss. 

A  gentle  scroll ; — Fair  lady,  by  your  leave  : 

I  come  by  note,  to  give  and  to  receive.  [.Kissing  aer 

As  doubtful  whether  what  I  see  be  true, 

Until  confirm'd,  sign'd,  ratified  by  you. 

For.  You  see  me,  lord  Bassanio,  where  I  stand, 
Such  as  I  am  :  though,  for  myself  alone, 
I  would  not  be  ambitious  in  my  wish, 
To  wish  myself  much  better ;  yet,  for  you, 
I  would  be  trebled  twenty  times  myself; 
A  thousand  times  more  fair,  ten  thousand  times 
More  rich ; 

That  only  to  stand  high  on  your  account, 
I  might  in  virtues,  beauties/livings,  friends, 
Exceed  account :  but  the  full  sum  of  me 
Is  sum  of  something ;  which,  to  term  in  gross, 
Is  an  unlesson'd  girl,  unschooPd,  unpractis'd  : 
Happy  in  this,  she  is  not  yet  so  old 
But  she  may  learn  ;  and  happier  than  this, 
She  is  not  bred  so  dull  but  she  can  learn ; 
Happiest  of  all,  is,  that  her  gentle  spirit 
Commits  itself  to  yours  to  be  directed, 
As  from  her  lord,  her  governor,  her  king. 
Myself,  and  what  is  mine,  to  you,  and  yours 
Is  now  couverted  :  but  now  I  was  the  lord 
Of  this  fair  mansion,  master  of  my  servants, 
Queen  o'er  myself ;  and  even  now,  but  now, 
This  house,  these  servants,  and  this  same  myself, 
Are  yours,  my  lord. 

Bass.  Madam,  you  have  bereft  me  of  all  words 
Only  my  blood  speaks  to  you  in  my  veins. 

Ner.  My  lord  and  lady,  it  is  now  our  time, 
That  have  stood  by,  and  seen  our  wishes  prosper, 
To  cry,  good  joy ;  Good  joy,  my  lord  and  lady  ! 

Gra.  My  lord  Bassanio,  and  my  gentle  lady, 
I  wish  you  all  the  joy  that  you  can  wish ; 
For  I  am  sure,  you  can  wish  none  from  me : 
And,  when  vour  honors  mean  to  solemnize 


252  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

The  bargain  of  your  faith,  I  do  beseech  you, 
Even  at  that  time  I  may  be  married  too. 

Bass.  With  all  my  heart,  so  thou  canst  get  a  wife. 

Gra.  I  thank  your  lordship  ;  you  have  got  me  one. 
My  eyes,  my  lord,  can  look  as  swift  as  yours  : 
You  saw  the  mistress,  I  beheld  the  maid ; 
You  lov'd,  I  lov'd ;  for  intermission 
No  more  pertains  to  me,  my  lord,  than  you. 
Your  fortune  stood  upon  the  caskets  there ; 
And  so  did  mine  too,  as  the  matter  falls : 
For  wooing  here,  until  I  sweat  again ; 
And  swearing,  till  my  very  roof  was  dry 
With  oaths  of  love  ;  at  last, — if  promise  last, — 
I  got  a  promise  of  this  fair  one  here, 
To  have  her  love,  provided  that  vour  fortune 
Achiev'd  her  mistress. 

For.  Is  this  true,  Nenssa  ? 

Ner.  Madam,  it  is,  so  you  stand  pleas'd  withal. 

Bass.  And  do  you,  Gratiano,  mean  good  faith  ? 

Gra.  Yes,  faith,  my  lord. 

Bass.  Our  feast  shall  be  much  honor'd  in  your  marri&ge. 

Lorenzo,  Jessica  and  Salanio,  bring  a  Letter  from  Antonio  to  Bassanio,  acruaint- 
ing  him  with  his  losses,  and  that  the  Bond  to  the  Jew  is  forfeited.  Bassanio  is  struck 
with  horror  at  the  tidings,  and  determines  to  leave  Portia  and  proceed  immediately  to  his 
friend  ;  Portia  insists  that  the  marriage  ceremony  between  them,  shall  be  first  solemnized, 
and  furnishes  him  with  money  more  than  sufficient  to  discharge  the  Bond. 

After  the  departure  of  Bassanio  and  his  friends,  Portia  determines  to  follow  them,  and 
assist  in  saving  Antonio  from  the  Jew's  malignity.  She  writes  to  her  cousin 'Bellarip, 
who  is  a  Doctor  of  Law,  and  requests  his  advice  on  the  nature  of  the  Bond  given  by  An- 
tonio ;  fortified  with  Bellario's  opinion,  she  goes  to  Venice,  where  assuming  the  disguise 
of  a  Doctor  of  Law,  or  Counsellor,  with  Nerissa  as  her  clerk,  she  attends  the  Trial  of  the 
Merchant. 

ACT  IV. 

We  are  now  -introduced  to  the  catastrophe  of  this  magnificent  Drama— the  Trial 
Scene ; — and  taken  as  an  isolated  Scene,  it  stands  perhaps  the  most  perfect  piece  of  com- 
position to  be  found  in  the  whole  range  of  Dramatic  writing. 

SCENE  I.— Venice.     A  Court  of  Justice. 

Enter  the  DUKE,  the  Magnificoes ;  ANTONIO,  BASSANIO,  GRATLANC-, 
SALARINO,  SALANIO,  and  others. 

Duke.  What,  is  Antonio  here  ? 

Ant.  Ready,  so  please  your  grace. 

Duke.  I  am  sorry  fcr  thee  :  thou  art  come  to  answer 
A  stony  adversary,  an  inhuman  wretch 
Uncapable  of  pity,  void  and  empty 
From  an/  dram  of  mercy. 


MERCHANT    OF    VENICE. 

Ant.  I  have  heard 

\  our  grace  has  ta'en  great  pains  to  qualify 
His  rigorous  course ;  but  since  he  stands  obdurate, 
And  that  no  lawful  means  can  carry  me 
Out  of  his  envy's  reach,  I  do  oppose 
My  patience  to  his  fu»y ;  and  am  arm'd 
To  suffer,  with  a  quietness  of  spirit, 
The  very  tyranny  and  rage  of  his. 

Duke.  Go  one,  and  call  the  Jew  into  the  court. 

Salon.  He's  ready  at  the  door  :  he  comes,  my  lord. 

Enter  SHYLOCK. 

Duke.  Make  room,  and  let  him  stand  before  our  face.— 
Shy  lock,  the  world  thinks,  and  I  think  so  too, 
That  thou  but  lead'st  this  fashion  of  thy  malice 
To  the  last  hour  of  act ;  and  then,  'tis  thought, 
Thou'lt  show  thy  mercy  and  remorse,  more  strange 
Than  is  thy  strange  apparent  cruelty : 
And  where  thou  now  exact'st  the  penalty, 
(Which  is  a  pound  of  this  poor  merchant's  flesh,) 
Thou  wilt  not  only  lose  the  forfeiture,  ,     * 

But  touch'd  with  human  gentleness  and  love, 
Forgive  a  moiety  of  the  principal ; 
Glancing  an  eye  of  pity  on  his  losses 
That  have  of  late  so  huddled  on  his  back, 
Enough  to  press  a  royal  merchant  down, 
And  pluck  commiseration  of  his  state 
From  bra?sy  bosoms,  and  rough  hearts  of  flint, 
From  stubborn  Turks,  and  Tartars,  never  train'd 
To  offices  of  tender  courtesy. 
We  all  expect  a  gentle  answer,  Jew. 

Shy.  I  have  possess'd  your  grace  of  what  I  purpose  j 
And  by  our  holy  Sabbath  have  I  sworn, 
To  have  the  due  and  forfeit  of  my  bond  : 
If  you  deny  it,  let  the  danger  light 
Upon  your  charter,  and  your  city's  freedom. 
You'll  ask  me,  why  I  rather  choose  to  have 
A  weight  of  carrion  flesh,  than  to  receive 
Three  thousand  ducats  :  I'll  not  answer  that : 
But,  say,  it  is  my  humor  ;  Is  it  answer'd  1 
What  if  my  house  be  troubled  with  a  rat, 
And  I  be  pleas'd  to  give  ten  thousand  ducats 
To  have  it  ban'd  1     What,  are  you  answer'd  yet  1 
Some  men  there  are,  love  not  a  gaping  pig ; 
Some,  that  are  mad,  if  they  behold  a  cat : 
As  there  is  no  firm  reason  to  be  render'd, 
Why  he  cannot  abide  a  gaping  pig ; 
Why  he,  a  harmless  necessary  cat ; 
So  can  1  give  no  reason,  nor  I  will  not, 


254  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

More  than  a  lodg'd  hate,  and  a  certain  loathing 

I  bear  Antonio,  that  I  follow  thus 

A  losing  suit  against  him.     Are  you  answer'd  ? 

Bass.  This  is  no  answer,  thou  unfeeling  man, 
To  excuse  the  current  of  thy  cruelty. 

Shy.  I  am  not  bound  to  please  thee  with  my  answer. 

Bass.  Do  all  men  kill  the  things  they  do  not  love  ? 

Shy.  Hates  any  man  the  thing  he  would  not  kill  ? 

Bass.  Every  offence  is  not  a  hate  at  first. 

Shy.  What,  would'st  thou  have  a  serpent  sting  thee  twice  t 

Ant.  I  pray  you,  think  you  question  with  the  Jew  : 
You  may  as  well  go  stand  upon  the  beach, 
And  bid  the  main  flood  bate  his  usual  height ; 
You  may  as  well  use  question  with  the  wolf, 
Why  he  hath  made  the  ewe  bleat  for  the  lamb ; 
You  may  as  well  forbid  the  mountain  pines 
To  wag  their  high  tops,  and  to  make  no  noise, 
When  they  are  fretted  with  the  gusts  of  heaven  ; 
You  may  as  well  do  any  thing  most  hard, 
As  seek  to  soften  that  (than  which  what's  harder  ?) 
His  Jewish  heart : — Therefore,  I  do  beseech  you, 
Make  no  more  offers,  use  no  further  means, 
But,  with  all  brief  and  plain  conveniency, 
Let  me  have  judgment,  and  the  Jew  his  will. 

Bass.  For  thy  three  thousand  ducats  here  is  six. 

Shy.  If  every  ducat  in  six  thousand  ducats, 
Were  in  six  parts,  and  every  part  a  ducat, 
I  would  not  draw  them,  T  would  have  my  bond. 

Duke.  How  shalt  thou  hope  for  mercy,  rend'ring  none  ? 

Shy.  What  judgment  shall  I  dread,  doing  no  wrong  ? 
You  have  among  you  many  a  purchas'd  slave, 
Which,  like  your  asses,  and  your  dogs,  and  mules, 
You  use  in  abject  and  in  slavish  parts, 
Because  you  bought  them  : — Shall  I  say  to  you, 
Let  them  be  free,  marry  them  to  your  heirs  ? 
Why  sweat  they  under  burdens  ?  let  their  beds 
Be  made  as  soft  as  yours,  and  let  their  palates 
Be  season'd  with  such  viands  ?     You  will  answer, 
The  slaves  are  ours  : — So  do  I  answer  you  ; 
The  pound  of  flesh,  which  I  demand  of  him, 
Is  dearly  bought,  'tis  mine,  and  I  will  have  it : 
If  you  deny  me,  fye  upon  your  law  ! 
There  is  no  force  in  the  decrees  of  Venice : 
I  stand  for  judgment :  answer  ;  shall  I  have  it  ? 

Duke.  Upon  my  power,  I  mav  dismiss  this  court, 
Unless  Bellario,  a  learned  doctor, 
Whom  I  have  sent  for  to  determine  this. 
Come  here  to-day. 

Salar.  My  lord,  here  stays  without 


MERCHANT   OF   VENICE.  255 

A  messenger  with  letters  from  the  doctor, 
New  come  from  Padua. 

Duke.  Bring  us  the  letters  ;  call  the  messenger. 

Bass.  Good  cheer,  Antonio !     What,  man  ?  courage  yet  I 
The  Jew  shall  have  my  flesh,  blood,  bones,  and  all, 
Ere  thou  shalt  lose  for  me  one  drop  of  blood. 

Ant.  I  am  a  tainted  wether  of  the  flock, 
Meetest  for  death  ;  the  weakest  kind  of  fruit 
Drops  earliest  to  the  ground,  and  so  let  me  : 
You  cannot  better  be  employ'd,  Bassanio, 
Than  to  live  still,  and  write  mine  epitaph. 

Enter  NERISSA,  dressed  like  a  lawyer's  cleric. 

Duke.  Came  you  from  Padua,  from  Bellario  ? 

Ner.  From  both,  my  lord  :  Bellario  greets  your  grace. 

[Presents  a  Ulter 

Bass.  Why  dost  thou  whet  thy  knife  so  earnestly  7 

Shy.  To  cut  the  forfeiture  from  that  bankrupt  there. 

Gra.  Not  on  thy  sole,  but  on  thy  soul,  harsh  Jew, 
Thou  mak'st  thy  knife  keen :  but  no  metal  can, 
No,  not  the  hangman's  axe,  bear  half  the  keenness 
Of  thy  sharp  envy.     Can  no  prayers  pierce  thee  ? 

Shy.  No,  none  that  thou  hast  wit  enough  to  make. 

Gra.  O,  be  thou  curs'd,  inexorable  dog  ! 
And  for  thy  life  let  justice  be  accus'd. 
Thou  almost  mak'st  me  waver  in  my  faith, 
To  hold  opinion  with  Pythagoras, 
That  souls  of  animals  infuse  themselves 
Into  the  trunks  of  men :  thy  currish  spirit 
Govern'd  a  wolf,  for  thy  desires 
Are  wolfish,  bloody,  starv'd,  and  ravenous. 

Shy.  Till  thou  canst  rail  the  seal  from  off  my  bond, 
Thou  but  offend'st  thy  lungs  to  speak  so  loud : 
Repair  thy  wit,  good  youth  ;  or  it  will  fall 
To  cureless  ruin.    I  stand  here  for  law. 

Duke.  This  letter  from  Bellario  doth  commend 
A  young  and  learned  doctor  to  our  court : — 
Where  is  he  ? 

Ner.  He  attendeth  here  hard  by, 

To  know  your  answer,  whether  you'll  admit  him. 

Duke.  With  all  my  heart : — some  three  or  four  of  you, 
Go  give  him  courteous  conduct  to  this  place. — 
Meantime,  the  court  shall  hear  Bellario's  letter. 

[Clerk  reads.] — Your  grace,  shall  understand,  that,  at  the  receipt 
of  your  letter,  I  am  very  sick:  but  in  the  instant  that  your  messenger 
came,  in  loving  visitation  was  with  me  a  young  doctor  of  Rome,  his 
name  is  Balthasar :  I  acquainted  him  with  the  cause  in  controversy 
between  the  Jew  and  Antonio  the  merchant :  we  turn'd  o'er  many  books 
together :  he  is  furnished  with  my  opinion ;  which,  bettered  with  his 


'256  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

own  learning,  (the  greatness  whereof  I  cannot  enough  commend., 
comss  with  him,  at  my  importunity,  to  fill  up  your  grace's  request  ir- 
my  stead.  I  beseech  you,  let  his  lack  of  years  be  no  impediment  to  lei 
him  lack  a  reverend  estimation ;  for  I  never  knew  so  young  a  body 
with  so  old  a  head.  I  leave  him  to  your  gracious  acceptance,  ivhost 
trial  shall  better  publish  his  commendation. 

Duke.  You  hear  the  learned  Bellario,  what  he  writes : 
And  here,  I  take  it,  is  the  doctor  come. — 

Enter  PORTIA,  dressed  like  a  doctor  of  laws. 

Give  me  your  hand  :  Came  you  from  old  Bellario  ? 

For.  I  did,  my  lord. 

Duke.  You  are  welcome  :  take  your  place. 

Are  you  acquainted  with  the  difference 
That  holds  this  present  question  in  the  court  ? 

For.  I  am  informed  thoroughly  of  the  cause. 
Which  is  the  merchant  here,  and  which  the  Jew  ? 

Duke.  Antonio  and  old  Shylock,  both  stand  forth  ! 

For.  Is  your  name  Shylock  ? 

Shy.  Shylock  is  my  name. 

For.  Of  a  strange  nature  is  the  suit  you  follow ; 
Yet  in  such  a  rule,  that  the  Venetian  law 
Cannot  impugn  you,  as  you  do  proceed. — 
You  stand  within  his  danger,  do  you  not  ?  [T<  ANTONIO 

Ant.  Ay,  so  he  says. 

For.  Do  you  confess  the  bond  ? 

Ant.  I  do. 

For.  Then  must  the  Jew  be  merciful. 

Shy.  On  what  compulsion  must  I  ?  tell  me  that. 

For.  The  quality  of  mercy  is  not  strain'd ; 
It  droppeth,  as  the  gentle  rain  from  heaven 
Upon  the  place  beneath  :  it  is  twice  bless'd  ; 
It  blesseth  him  that  gives,  and  him  that  takes  : 
'Tis  mightiest  in  the  mightiest ;  it  becomes 
The  throned  monarch  better  than  his  crown ; 
His  sceptre  shows  the  force  of  temporal  power, 
The  attribute  to  awe  and  majesty, 
Wherein  doth  sit  the  dread  and  fear  of  kings ; 
But  mercy  is  above  this  -scepter'd  sway, 
It  is  enthroned  in  the  hearts  of  kings, 
It  is  an  attribute  to  God  himself; 
And  earthly  power  doth  then  show  likest  God's 
When  mercy  seasons  justice.     Therefore,  Jew, 
Though  justice  be  thy  plea,  consider  this — 
That  in  the  course  of  justice,  none  of  us 
Should  see  salvation :  we  do  pray  for  mercy  ; 
And  that  same  prayer  doth  teach  us  all  to  render 
The  deeds  of  mercy.     I  have  spoke  thus  much, 


MERCHANT    OF   VENICE.  25" 

To  mitigate  the  justice  of  thy  plea ; 

Which  if  thou  follow,  this  strict  court  of  Venice 

Must  needs  give  sentence  'gainst  the  merchant  there. 

Shy.  My  deeds  upon  my  head  !     I  crave  the  law, 
The  penalty  and  forfeit  of  my  bond. 

Par.  Is  he  not  able  to  discharge  the  money  ? 

Bass.  Yes,  here  I  tender  it  for  him  in  the  court : 
Yea,  thrice  the  sum  :  if  that  will  not  suffice, 
I  will  be  bound  to  pay  it  ten  times  o'er, 
On  forfeit  of  my  hands,  my  head,  my  heart : 
If  this  will  not  suffice,  it  must  appear 
That  malice  bears  down  truth.     And  I  beseech  you, 
Wrest  once  the  law  to  your  authority  : 
To  do  a  great  right  do  a  little  wrong ; 
And  curb  this  cruel  devil  of  his  will. 

For.  It  must  not  be  ;  there  is  no  power  in  Venice 
Can  alter  a  decree  established  : 
'Twill  be  recorded  for  a  precedent ; 
And  many  an  error,  by  the  same  example, 
Will  rush  into  the  state  :  it  cannot  be. 

Shy.  A  Daniel  come  to  judgment !  yea,  a  Daniel ! 
O  wise  young  judge,  how  do  I  honor  thee ! 

For.  I  pray  you,  let  me  look  upon  the  bond. 

Shy.  Here  it  is,  most  reverend  doctor,  here  it  is. 

For.  Shylock,  there's  thrice  thy  money  offer'd  thee« 

Shy.  An  oath,  an  oath,  I  have  an  oath  in  heaven : 
Shall  I  lay  perjury  upon  my  soul  ? 
No,  not  for  Venice. 

For.  Why,  this  bond  is  forfeit : 

And  lawfully  by  this  the  Jew  may  claim 
A  pound  of  flesh,  to  be  by  him  cut  off 
Nearest  the  merchant's  heart : — Be  merciful ; 
Take  thrice  thy  money  ;  bid  me  tear  the  bond. 

Shy.  When  it  is  paid  according  to  the  tenor.— 
It  doth  appear,  you  are  a  worthy  judge  ; 
You  know  the  law,  your  exposition 
Hath  been  most  sound  :  I  charge  you  by  the  law, 
Whereof  you  are  a  well-deserving  pillar, 
Proceed  to  judgment :  by  my  soul  I  swear, 
•There  is  no  power  in  the  tongue  of  man 
To  alter  me  :  I  stay  here  on  my  bond. 

Ant.  Most  heartily  I  do  beseech  the  court 
To  give  the  judgment. 

For.  Why  then,  thus  it  is. 

You  must  prepare  your  bosom  for  his  knife. 

Shy.  O  noble  judge  !    O  excellent  young  man ! 

For.  For  the  intent  and  purpose  of  the  law 
Hath  full  relation  to  the  penalty, 
Which  here  appeareth  due  upon  the  bond. 


258  SHAKSPEARIAN    HEADER. 

Shy.  'Tis  very  true  :  O  wise  and  upright  judge ! 
How  much  more  elder  art  thou  than  thy  looks  ! 

Por.  Therefore,  lay  bare  your  bosom. 

Shy.  Ay,  his  breast : 

So  says  the  bond  ;— Doth  it  not,  noble  judge  ? — 
Nearest  his  heart,  those  are  the  very  words. 

Por.  It  is  so.     Are  there  balance  here,  to  weigh 
The  flesh  ? 

Shy.          I  have  them  ready. 

Por.  Have  by  some  surgeon,  Shylock,  on  your  charge, 
To  stop  his  wounds,  lest  he  do  bleed  to  death. 

Shy.  Is  it  so  nominated  in  the  bond  ? 

Por.  It  is  not  so  express'd ;  But  what  of  that  ? 
'Twere  good  you  do  so  much  for  charity. 

Shy.  I  cannot  find  it ;  'tis  not  in  the  bond. 

Por.  Come,  merchant,  have  you  any  thing  to  say  ? 

Ant.  But  little  ;  I  am  arm'd,  and  well  prepar'd. — 
Give  me  your  hand,  Bassanio ;  fare  you  well ! 
Grieve  not  that  I  am  fallen  to  this  for  you  ; 
For  herein  fortune  shows  nerself  more  kind 
Than  is  her  custom  :  it  is  still  her  use, 
To  let  the  wretched  man  out-live  his  wealth, 
To  view  with  hollow  eye,  and  wrinkled  brew, 
An  age  of  poverty ;  from  which  lingering  penance 
Of  such  a  misery  doth  she  cut  me  off. 
Commend  me  to  your  honorable  wife : 
Tell  her  the  process  of  Antonio's  end, 
Say.  how  I  loved  you,  speak  me  fair  in  death ; 
And,  when  the  tale  is  told,  bid  her  be  judge, 
Whether  Bassanio  had  not  once  a  love. 
Repent  not  you  that  you  shall  lose  your  friend, 
And  he  repents  not  that  he  pays  your  debt ; 
For,  if  the  Jew  do  cut  but  deep  enough, 
I'll  pay  it  instantly  with  all  my  heart. 

Bass.  Antonio,  I  am  married  to  a  wife, 
Which  is  as  dear  to  me  as  life  itself ; 
But  life  itself,  my  wife,  and  all  the  world, 
Are  not  with  me  esteem'd  above  thy  life  *, 
I  would  lose  all,  ay,  sacrifice  them  all 
Here  to  this  devil,  to  deliver  you. 

Por.  Your  wife  would  give  you  little  thanks  for  that 
If  she  were  by,  to  hear  you  make  the  offer. 

Gra.  I  have  a  wife,  whom,  I  protest  I  love ; 
I  would  she  were  in  heaven,  so  she  could 
Entreat  some  power  to  change  this  currish  Jew. 

Ner.  'Tis  well  you  offer  it  behind  her  back ; 
The  wish  would  make  else  an  unquiet  house. 

Shy.  These  be  the  Christian  husbands  :  I  have  a  daughter ; 


MERCHANT   OF   VENICE.  259 

'Would,  any  of  the  stock  of  Barrabas 

Had  been  her  husband,  rather  than  a  Christian  !  [Asufe 

We  trifle  time ;  I  pray  thee,  pursue  sentence. 

For.  A  pound  of  that  same  merchant's  flesh  '«  thine, 
The  court  awards  it,  and  the  law  doth  give  it. 

Shy.  Most  rightful  judge  ! 

Por.  And  you  must  cut  this  flesh  from  off  his  breast ; 
The  law  allows  it,  and  the  court  awards  it. 

Shy.  Most  learned  judge  ! — A  sentence  ;  come,  prepare. 

Por.  Tarry  a  little  ; — there  is  something  else. — 
This  bond  doth  give  thee  here  no  jot  of  blood ; 
The  words  expressly  are  a  pound  of  flesh  : 
Take  then  thy  bond,  take  thou  thy  pound  of  flesh  ; 
But,  in  the  cutting  it,  if  thou  dost  shed 
One  drop  of  Christian  blood,  thy  lands  and  goods 
Are,  by  the  laws  of  Venice,  confiscate 
Unto  the  state  of  Venice. 

Gra.  O  upright  judge  ! — Mark,  Jew ; — O  learned  judge  ! 

Shy.  Is  that  the  law  ? 

Por.  Thyself  shall  see  the  act ; 

For,  as  thou  urgest  justice,  be  assur'd, 
Thou  shall  have  justice,  more  than  thou  desir'st. 

Gra.  O  learned  judge  ! — Mark,  Jew ; — a  learned  judge ! 

Shy.  I  take  this  offer  then, — pay  the  bond  thrice, 
And  let  the  Christian  go. 

Bass.  Here  is  the  money. 

Por.  Soft; 

'  The  Jew  shall  have  all  justice  ; — soft ; — no  haste  ; — 
He  shall  have  nothing  but  the  penalty. 

Gra.  O  Jew  !  an  upright  judge,  a  learned  judge  ! 

Por.  Therefore,  prepare  thee  to  cut  off  the  flesh. 
Shed  thou  no  blood  ;  nor  cut  thou  less,  nor  more, 
But  just  a  pound  of  flesh  :  if  thou  tak'st  more, 
Or  less,  than  a  just  pound, — be  it  but  so  much 
As  makes  it  light,  or  heavy,  in  the  substance, 
Or  the  division  of  the  twentieth  part 
Of  one  poor  scruple  :  nay,  if  the  scale  do  turn 
But  in  the  estimation  of  a  hair, — 
Thou  diest,  and  all  thy  goods  are  confiscate. 

Gra.  A  second  Daniel,  a  Daniel,  Jew ! 
Now,  infidel,  I  have  thee  on  the  hip. 

Por.  Why  doth  the  Jew  pause  ?  take  thy  forfeiture. 

Shy.  Give  me  my  principal,  and  let  me  go. 

Bars.  I  have  it  ready  for  thee ;  here  it  is. 

Pur.  He  hath  refus'd  it  in  the  open  court ; 
He  shall  have  merely  justice,  and  his  bond. 

Gra.  A  Daniel,  still  say  I ;  a  second  Daniel ! — 
I  thank  thee.  Jew,  for  teaching  me  that  word. 

Shy.  Shall  I  not  have  barely  my  principal  1 


200  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Por.  Thou  shalt  have  nothing  but  the  forfeiture, 
To  be  so  taken  at  thy  peril,  Jew. 

Shy.  Why  then  the  devil  give  him  good  of  it : 
I'll  stay  no  longer  question. 

Por.  Tarry,  Jew , 

The  law  hath  yet  another  hold  on  you. 
It  is  enacted  in  the  laws  of  Venice, — 
If  it  be*  prov'd  against  an  alien, 
That  by  direct,  or  indirect  attempts, 
He  seek  the  life  of  any  citizen, 
The  party,  'gainst  the  which  he  doth  contrive, 
Shall  seize  one  half  his  goods ;  the  other  half 
Comes  to  the  privy  coffer  of  the  state  ; 
And  the  offender's  life 'lies  in  the  mercy 
Of  the  duke  only,  'gainst  all  other  voice. 
In  which  predicament,  I  say,  thou  stand'st : 
For  it  appears  by  manifest  proceeding, 
That,  indirectly,  and  directly  too, 
Thou  hast  contriv'd  against  the  very  life 
Of  the  defendant ;  and  thou  hast  incurr'd 
The  danger  formerly  by  me  rehears'd. 
Down,  therefore,  and  beg  mercy  of  the  duke. 

Gra.  Beg  that  thou  may'st  have  leave  to  hang  thysel ": 
And  yet,  thy  wealth  being  forfeit  to  the  state, 
Thou  hast  not  left  the  value  of  a  cord  ; 
Therefore,  thou  must  be  hang'd  at  the  state's  charge. 

Duke.  That  thou  shalt  see  the  difference  of  our  spirit, 
I  pardon  thee  thy  life  before  thou  ask  it : 
For  half  thy  wealth,  it  is  Antonio's  ; 
The  other  half  comes  to  the  general  state, 
Which  humbleness  may  drive  unto  a  fine. 

Por.  Ay,  for  the  state  ;  not  for  Antonio. 

Shy.  Nay,  take  my  life  and  all,  pardon  not  that : 
You  take  my  house,  when  you  do  take  the  prop 
That  doth  sustain  my  house  ;  you  take  my  life, 
When  you  do  take  the  means  whereby  I  live. 

Por.  What  mercy  can  you  render  him,  Antonio  ? 

Gra.  A  halter  gratis ;  nothing  else  ;  for  Heaven's  sake. 

Ant.  So  please  my  lord  the  duke,  and  all  the  court, 
To  quit  the  fine  for  one  half  of  his  goods  ; 
I  am  content,  so  he  will  let  me  have 
The  other  half  in  use, — to  render  it, 
Upon  his  death,  unto  the  gentleman 
That  lately  stole  his  daughter ; 
Two  things  provide:!  more, — That  for  this  favor, 
He  presently  become  a  Christian ; 
The  other,  that  he  do  record  a  gift, 
Here  in  the  court,  of  all  he  dies  possess'd 
Unto  his  son  Lorenzo,  and  his  daughter. 


MERCHANT   OF   VENICE.  261 

Duke.  He  shall  do  this ;  or  else  I  do  recant 
The  pardon,  that  I  late  pronounced  here. 

Por.  Art  thou  contented,  Jew,  what  dost  thou  say  ? 

Shy.  I  am  content. 

Por.  Clerk,  draw  a  deed  of  gift. 

Shy.  I  pray  you  give  me  leave  to  go  from  hence  : 
I  am  not  well ;  send  the  deed  after  me, 
And  I  will  sign  it. 

Duke.  Get  thee  gone,  but  do  it. 

Gra.  In  christening,  thou  shalt  have  two  godfathers  ; 
Had  I  been  judge,  thou  should'st  have  had  ten  more, 
To  bring  thee  to  the  gallows,  not  the  font.  [Exit  SHYLOCK. 

Duke.  Sir,  I  entreat  you  home  with  me  to  dinner. 

Por.  I  humbly  do  desire  your  grace  of  pardon ; 
I  must  away  this  night  toward  Padua, 
And  it  is  meet,  I  presently  set  forth. 

Duke.  I  am  sorry,  that  your  leisure  serves  not. 
Antonio,  gratify  this  gentleman  ; 
Foi,  in  my  mind,  you  are  much  bound  to  him. 

[Exeunt  DUKE,  Magnificoes,  and  Train. 

The  interest  of  the  Play  ends  with  the  delivery  of  Antonio,  and  the  punishment  of 
Shyloek  j  the  fifth  Act  is  occupied  in  explanations  which  naturally  follow  between  th« 
leading  c.wtcten,  growing  out  of  the  disguises  assumed  by  Portia  and  Nerissa. 


KING  LEAH, 


"The  story  of  King  Lear  and  his  three  daughters,  is  found  in  Elolmshed's  Chronicle; 
and  was  originally  told  by  GeofFry  of  Monmouth,  who  says  that  Lear  was  the  eldest  son 
of  Bladud,  and  'nobly  governed  his  country  for  sixty  years.*  According  to  that  his 
torian,  he  died  about  800  years  before  Christ.  Shakspeare  has  taken  the  hint  for  thf 
behavior  of  the  steward,  and  the  reply  of  Cordelia  to  her  father  concerning  her  future  mar- 
riage, from  the  Mirror  of  Magistrates,  1587.  According  to  Steevens,  the  episode  of 
Glosterand  his  sons  is  borrowed  from  Sidney's  Arcadia." 

Macbeth,  Othello,  Hamlet,  and  Lear,  are  placed  by  general  consent  as  first  in  the  list 
of  Shakspeare's  inspired  creations,  but  to  the  character  of  Lear,  is  yielded  the  pre-eminence. 
It  is  perhaps  the  most  wonderfu    dramatic  conception  on  record.      We  have  en- 
deavored to  incorporate  into  our  selections,  the  entire  development  of  this  extraordinary 
treation. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 

LEAR,  King  of  Britain. 

KING  OF  FRANCE. 

DUKE  OF  BURGUNDY. 

DUKE  OF  CORNWALL. 

DUKE  OF  ALBANY. 

EARL  OF  KENT. 

EARL  OF  GLOSTER. 

EDGAR,  son  to  Gloster. 

EDMUND,  illegitimate  son  U  Gloster 

CURAN,  a  courtier. 

Old  Man,  tenant  to  Gloster. 

Physician.     Fool. 

OSWALD,  steward  to  Goneril. 

An  Officer  employed  by  Edmund. 

Gentleman,  attendant  'on  Cordelia. 

A  Herald.     Servants  to  Cornwall. 


,  REGAN,  CORDELIA,  daughters  to  Lear. 
Knights  attending  on  the  King,  Officers,  Messengers,  Soldieis  and 

Attendants. 
SCENE,—  BRITAIN. 


KING    LEAR.  268 


ACT   I. 

SCENE  I.— A  Room  of  Slate  in  King  Lear's  Palace. 

Enter  LEAR,  CORNWALL,  ALBANY,  GONERIL,  REGAN,  CORDELIA, 
and  Attendants. 

Lear.  Attend  the  lords  of  France  and  Burgundy  Glostcr. 

Glo.  I  shall,  my  liege.  [Exit  GLOSTER  &  EDMUND. 

Lear.  Mean-time  we  shall  express  our  darker  purpose. 
Give  me  the  map  there. — Know,  that  we  have  divided, 
Tn  three,  our  kingdom':  and  'tis  our  fast  intent 
To  shake  all  cares  and  business  from  our  age ; 
Conferring  them  on  younger  strengths,  while  we 
Unburden'd  crawl  toward  death. — Our  son  of  Cornwall, 
And  you,  our  no  less  Ipving  son  of  Albany, 
We  have  this  hour  a  constant  will  to  publish 
Our  daughters'  several  dowers,  that  future  strife 
May  be  prevented  now.     The  princes,  France  and  Burgundy, 
Great  rivals  in  our  youngest  daughter's  love, 
Long  in  our  court  have  made  their  amorous  sojourn, 
And  here  are  to  be  answer'd. — Tell  me,  my  daughters, 
(Since  now  we  will  divest  us,  both  of  rule, 
Interest  of  territory,  cares  of  state,) 
Which  of  you,  shall  we  say,  doth  love  us  most  ? 
That  we  our  largest  bounty  may  extend 
Where  merit  doth  most  challenge  it. — Goneril, 
Our  eldest-born,  speak  first. 

Gam.  Sir,  I 

Do  love  you  more  than  words  can  wield  the  matter 
Dearer  than  eye-sight,  space  and  liberty  ; 
Beyond  what  can  be  valued,  rich  or  rare  ; 
No  less  than  life,  with  grace,  health,  beauty,  honor : 
As  much  as  child  e'er  lov'd,  or  father  found. 
A  love  that  makes  breath  poor,  and  speech  unable  ; 
Beyond  all  manner  of  so  much  I  love  you. 

Cor.  What  shall  Cordelia  do  ?  Love,  and  be  silent.  [Aside 

Lear.  Of  all  these  bounds,  even  from  this  line  to  this, 
With  shadowy  forests  and  with  champains  rich'd, 
With  plenteous  rivers  and  wide-skirted  meads, 
We  make  thee  lady  :  To  thine  and  Albany's  issue 
Be  this  perpetual. — What  says  our  second  daughter, 
Our  dearest  Regan,  wife  to  Cornwall  ?  Speak. 

Reg.  I  am  made  of  that  self  metal  as  my  sister, 
And  prize  me  at  her  worth.     In  my  true  heart 
I  find,  she  names  my  very  deed  of  love ; 
Only  she  comes  too  short, — that  I  profess 
Myself  an  enemy  to  all  other  joys, 
Which  the  most  precious  square  of  sense  possesses ; 


264  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

And  find,  I  am  alone  felicitate 
In  your  dear  highness'  love. 

Cor.  Then  poor  Cordelia !  \Aside, 

And  yet  not  so  ;  since,  I  am  sure,  my  love's  x 

More  richer  than  mv  tongue. 

Lear.  To  thee,  and  thine,  hereditary  ever, 
Remains  this  ample  third  of  our  fair  kingdom  ; 
No  less  in  space,  validity,  and  pleasure, 
Than  that  confirm'd  on  Goneril. — Now,  our  joy, 
Although  the  last,  not  least ;  to  whose  young  love 
The  vines  of  France,  and  milk  of  Burgundy, 
Strive  to  be  interess'd ;  what  can  you  say,  to  draw 
A  third  more  opulent  than  your  sisters  ?  Speak. 

Cor.  Nothing,  my  lord. 

Lear.  Nothing? 

Cor.  Nothing. 

Lear.  Nothing  can  come  of  nothing :  speak  again. 

Cor.  Unhappy  that  I  am,  I  cannot  heave 
My  heart  into  my  mouth :  I  love  your  majesty 
According  to  my  bond ;  nor  more,  nor  less. 

Lear.  How,  how,  Cordelia  ?  mend  your  speech  a  littlo 
Lest  it  may  mar  your  fortunes. 

Cor.  Good  my  lord, 

You  have  begot  me,  bred  me,  lov'd  me :  I 
Return  those  duties  back  as  are  right  fit, 
Obey  you,  love  you,  and  most  honor  you. 
Why  have  my  sisters  husbands,  if  they  say 
They  love  you,  all  ?  Haply,  when  I  shall  wed, 
That  lord,  whose  hand  must  take  my  plight,  shall  carry" 
Half  my  love  with  him,  half  my  care,  and  duty  ! 
Sure,  I  shall  never  marry  like  my  sisters, 
To  love  my  father  all. 

Lear.  But  goes  this  with  thy  heart  ? 

Cor.  Ay,  good  my  lord. 

Lear.  So  young,  and^so  untender  ? 

Cor.  So  young,  my  lord,  and  true. 

Lear.  I  jet  it  be  so, — Thy  truth  then  be  thy  dower :     . 
For,  by  the  sacred  radiance  of  the  sun ;  > 

The  mysteries  o^Hecate,  and  the  night ; 
By  all  the  operations  of  the  orbs, 
From  whom.. we  do  exist,  and  cease  to  be  ; 
Here  I  disclaim  all  my  paternal  care, 
Propinquity  and  property  of  blood, 
And  as  a  stranger  to  my  heart  and  me 
Hold  thee,  from  this,  for  ever. 

Kent.  Good  my  liege, — 

Lear.  Peace,  Kent ! 

Come  not  between  the  dragon  and  his  wrath : 
I  lov'd  her  most,  and  thought  to  set  my  rest 


KING    LEAR.  265 

On  her  kind  nursery. -   Hence,  and  avoid  my  t?'.ght ! 

So  be  my  grave  my  peace,  as  here  I  give  [To  CORDELIA.. 

Her  father's  heart  from  her  ! — Call  France  ; — Who  stirs  ? 

Call  Burgundy. — Cornwall,  and  Albany, 

With  my  two  daughters'  dowers  digest  this  third  . 

Let  pride,  which  she  calls  plainness,  marry  her. 

I  do  invest  you  jointly  with  my  power,  - 

Pre-eminence,  and  all  the  large  effects 

That  troop  with  majesty. — Ourself,  by  monthly  course, 

,With  reservation  of  an  hundred  knights, 

By  you  to  be  sustain'd,  shall  our  abode 

Make  with  you  by  due  turns.     Only  we  still  retain 

The  name,  and  all  the  additions  to  a  king ; 

The  sway,  revenue,  execution  of  the  rest, 

Beloved  sons,  be  yours  :  which  to  confirm, 

Phis  coronet  part  between  you.  [Giving  the  crown. 

Kent.  Royal  Lear, 

Whom  I  have  ever  honor'd  as  my  king, 
Lov'd  as  my  father,  as  my  master  follow'd, 
As  my  great  patron  thought  on  in  my  prayers, — 

Lear.  The  bow  is  bent  and  drawn,  make  from  the  shaft. 

Kent.  Let  it  fall  rather,  though  the  fork  invade 
The  region  of  my  heart :  be  Kent  unmannerly, 
When  Lear  is  mad.     What  would'st  thou  do,  old  man  ? 
Think'st  thou,  that  duty  shall  have  dared  to  speak, 
When  power  to  flattery  bows  ?  To  plainness  honor's  bound, 
When  majesty  stoops  to  folly.     Reverse  thy  doom  ; 
And,  in  thy  best  consideration,  check 
This  hideous  rashness  :  answer  my  life  my  judgment, 
Thy  youngest  daughter  does  not  love  thee  least ; 
Nor  are  those  empty-hearted,  whose  low  sound 
Reverbs  no  hollowness. 

Lear.  Kent,  on  thy  life,  no  more. 

Kent.  My  life  I  never  held  but  as  a  pawn 
To  wage  against  thine  enemies  ;  nor  fear  to  lose  it, 
Thy  safety  being  the  motive. 

Lear.  Out  of  my  sight ! 

Kent.  See  better,  Lear ;  and  let  me  still  remain 
The  true  blank  of  thine  eye. 

Lear.  Now,  by  Apollo, — 

Kent.  Now,  by  Apollo,  king, 

Thou  swear'st  thy  gods  in  vain 

Lear.  O,  vassal !  miscreant ! 

[Laying  his  hand  on  his  swonL 

-Alb.  Corn.  Dear  sir,  forbear. 

Kent:  Do; 

£ill  thy  physician,  and  the  fee  bestow 
Upon  the  foul  disease.    Revoke  thy  gift ; 

13 


266  -  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Or,  whilst  I  can  vent  clamor  from  my  throat, 
I'll  tell  thee  thou  dost  evil. 

Lear.  .  Hear  me,  recreant ! 

On  thine  allegiance  hear  me  ! — 
Since  thou  hast  sought  to  make  us  break  our  vow, 
(Which  we  durst  never  yet,)  and,  with  strain'd  prido, 
To  come  betwixt  our  sentence  and  our  power ; 
(Which  nor  our  nature  nor  our  place  can  bear,) 
Our  potency  made  good.,  take  thy  reward. 
Five  days  do  we  allot  thee,  for  provision 
To  shield  thee  from  diseases  of  the  world  ; 
And,  on  the  sixth,  to  turn  thy  hated  back    .  ' 

Upon  our  kingdom  :  if,  on  the  tenth  day  following, 
Thy  banish'd  trunk  be  found  in  our  dominions, 
The  moment  is  thy  death  :  Away  !  by  Jupiter, 
This  shall  not  be  revok'd, 

Kent.  Fare  thee  well,  king ;  since  thus  thou  wilt  appear, 
Freedom  lives  hence,  and  banishmentjs  here. — 
The  gods  to  their  dear  shelter  take  thee,  maid,  [To  CORDELIA, 

That  justly  think'st,  and  hast  most  rightly  said  !— 
And  your  large  speeches  may  your  deeds  approve, 

[  To  REGAN  and  GONERIL. 

That  good  effects  may  spring  from  words  of  love. — 
Thus  Kent,  O  princes,  bids  you  all  adieu : 
He'll  shape  his  old  course  in  a  country  new.  [Exit 

Re-enter  GLOSTER  :  with  FRANCE,.  BURGUNDY,  and  Attendants. 

Glo.  Here's  France  and  Burgundy,  my  noble  lord. 

Lear.  My  lord  of  Burgundy, 
We  first  address  towards  you,  who  with  this  king 
Hath  rivall'd  for  our  daughter ;  What,  in  the  least, 
Will  you  require  in  present  dower  with  her, 
Or  cease  your  quest  of  love  ? 

Bur.  Most  royal  majesty, 

I  crave  no  more  than  hath  your  highness  offer'd, 
Nor  will  you  tender  less. 

Lear.  Right  noble  Burgundy, 

When  she  was  dear  to  us,  we  did  hold  her  so ; 
But  now  her  price  is  fall'n  :  Sir,  there  she  stands ; 
If  aught  within  that  little,  seeming  substance, 
Or  all  of  it,  with  our  displeasure  piec'd, 
And  nothing  more  may  fitly  like  your  grace, 
She's  there,  and  she  is  yours. 

Bur,  I  know  no  answer  ' 

Lear.  Sir, 

Will  you,  with  those  infirmities  she  owes, 
.Unfriended,  new-adopted  to  our  hate, 
Dower'd  with  our  curse,  and  stranger'd  with  our  oath, 
Take  her.  or  leave  her  ? 


KING    LEAR.  .        267 

Bur.  Pardon  me,  royal  sir ; 

Election  makes  not  up  on  such  conditions. 

Lear.  Then  leave  her,  sir;  for,  by  the  power  that  made  me, 
I  tell  you  all  her  wealth. — For  you,  great  king,  [To  France. 

1  would  not  from  your  love  make  such  a  stray, 
To  match  you  where  I  hate ;  therefore  beseech  you 
To  avert  your  liking  a  more  worthier  way, 
Than  on  a  wretch  whom  nature  is  asham'd 
Almost  to  acknowledge  hers. 

France.  This  is  most  strange  ! 

That  she,  that  even  but  now  was  your  best  object, 
The  argument  of  your  praise,  balm  of  your  age, 
Most  best,  most  dearest,  should  in  this  trice  of  time 
Commit  a  thing  so  monstrous,  to  dismantle 
So  many  folds  of  favor !  S.ure,  her  offence 
Must  be  of  such  unnatural  degree, 
That  monsters  it,  or  your  fore-vouch'd  affection 
Fall  into  taint :  which  to  believe  of  her, 
Must  be  >a  faith,  that  reason  without  miracle 
Could  never  plant  in  me. 

Cor.  .     I  yet  beseech  your  majesty, 

(If  for  I  want  that  glib  and  oily  art, 
To  speak,  and  purpose  not ;  since  what  I  well  intend, 
I'll  do't  before  I  speak,)  that  you  make  known 
It  is  no  vicious  blot,  murder,  or  foulness, 
No  unchaste  action,  or  dishonor'd  step, 
That  hath  deprived  me  of  /your  grace  and  favor : 
But  even  for  want  of  that,  for  which  I  am  richer ; . 
A  still  soliciting  eye,  and  such  a  tongue 
That  I  am  glad  I  have  not,  though  not  to  have  it, 
Hath  lost  me  in  your  liking. 

Lear.  Better  thou 

Hadst  not  been  born,  than  not  to  have  pleas'd  me  better. 

France.  Is  it  but  this  ?  a  tardiness  in  nature, 
Which  often  leaves  the  history  unspoke, 
That  it  intends  to  do  ? — My  lord  of  Burgundy, 
What  say  you  to  the  lady  ?  Love  is  not  love 
When  it  is  mingled  with  respects,  that  stand 
Aloof  from  the  entire  point.     Will  you  have  her  ? 
She  is  herself  a  dowry. 

Bur.  Royal  Lear, 

Give  but  that  portion  which  yourself  propos'd, 
And  here  I  take  Cordelia  by  the  hand, 
Duchess  of  Burgundy. 

Lear.  Nothing  :  I  have  sworn  ;  I  am  firm. 

Bur.  I  am  sorry  then,  you  have  so  lost  a  father, 
That  you  must  lose  a  husband. 

Cor.  Peace  be  with  Burgundy  I 


268  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Since  that  respects  of  fortune  are  his  love, 
I  shall  not  be  his  wife. 

France.  Fairest  Cordelia,  that  art  most  rich,  being  poor ; 
Most  choice,  forsaken ;  and  most  lov'd,  despis'd ! 
Thee  and  thy  virtues  here  I  seize  upon  : 
Be  it  lawful,  I  take  up  what's  cast  away. 
Gods,  gods  !  'tis  strange,  that  from  their  cold'st  neglect 
My  love  should  kindle  to  inflam'd  respect. — 
Thy  dowerless  daughter,  king,  thrown  to  my  chance, 
Is  queen  of  us,  of  ours,  and  our  fair  France  : 
Not  all  the  dukes  of  waterish  Burgundy 
Shall  buy  this  impriz'd  precious  maid  of  me. — . 
Bid  them  farewell,  Cordelia,  though  unkind ; . 
Thou  losest  here,  a^better  where  to  find. 

Lear.  Thou  hast  her,  France :  let  her  be  thine  ;  tor  we 
Have  no  such  daughter,,  nor  shall  ever  see 
That  face  of  hers  again  : — Therefore  be  gone, 
Without  our  grace,  our  love,  our  benison. 
Come,  noble  Burgundy. 

[Flourish.     Exeunt  LEAR,  BURGUNDY,  CORNWALL,  AW 

GLOSTER,  and  Attendants 

France.  Bid  farewell  to  your  sisters. 

Cor.  The  jewels  of  our  father,  with  wash'd  eyes 
Cordelia  leaves  you :  I  know  you  what  you  are ; 
And,  like  a  sister,  am  most  loa'th  to  call 
Your  faults  as  they  are  nam'd.,  Use  well  our  father : 
To  your  professed  bosoms  I  commit  him  : 
But  yet,  alas  !  stood  I  within  his  grace, 
I  would  prefer  him  to  a  better  place. 
So  farewell  to  you  both. 

Gon.  Prescribe  not  us  our  duties. 

Reg.  Let  your  study 

Be,  to  content  your  lord ;  who  hath  receiv'd  fou 
At  fortune's  alms.  You  have  obedience  scanted, 
And  well  are  worth  the  want  that  you  have  wanted. 

Or.  Time  shall  unfc'.d  what  plaited  cunning  hides ; 
Who  covers  faults,  at  last  shame  them  derides'. 
Well  may  you  prosper !  > 

France.  Come,  my  fair  Cordelia. 

[Exeunt  FRANCE  and- CORDELIA. 

Confining  ourselves  to  the  main  incidents  connected  with  the  story  of  Lear, — hia 
wropps  and  sufferings, — we  are  necessarily  compelled  to  omit  much  of  the  under  plot 
of  this  Play,  in  which  Shakspeare  introduces,  as  a  counterpart  to  Lear  suffering  under  the 
ingratitude  of  his  children,  Edgar,  the  son  of  Gloster,  as  a  pattern  of  filial  piety  and 
love,  unjustly  persecuted  by  his  father.  Gloster  is  persuaded  by  the,  machinations  of 
Edmund,  to  believe  that  Edgar  seeks  his  life.  " 

The  next  scene  we  extract,  introduces  Kent  in  the  disguise  of  a  Peasant,  under  the 
uame.of  Com*,  seeking  to  engage  himself  in  the  service  of  the  King,  whom  he  fears  will 
be  improperly  treated  by  Regan  and  Goneril. 


KING    LEAR.  260 

SCENE  IV.— A  Hall  in  the  Duke  of  Albany's  Palace.. 

Enter  KENT,  disguised. 
Kent.  If  but  as  well  I  other  accents  borrow, 
That  can  my  speech  diffuse,  my  good  intent 
May  carry  through  itself  to  that  full  issue 
For  which  1  raz'd  my  likeness. — Now,  banish'd  Kent, 
If  thou  canst  serve  where  thou  dost  stand  condemn'd,     • 
(So  may  it  come  !)  thy  master,  whom  thou  lov'st, 
Shall  find  thee  full  of  labors. 

Horns  within.     Enter  LEAR,  Knights,  and  Attendants. 

Lear.  Let  me  not  stay  a  jot  for  dinner  ;  go,  get  it  ready. — [jE~rt 
an  Attendant.] — How  now,  what  art  thou  ? 

Kent.  •  A  man,  sir. 

Lear.  What  dost  thou  profess  ?     What  would'st  thou  with  us  ? 

Kent.  I  do  profess  to  be  no  less  than  I  seem  ;  to  serve  him  truly, 
that  will  put  me  in  trust ;  to  love  him  that  is  honest ;  to  converse 
with  him  that  is  wise,  and  says  little ;  to  fear  judgment ;  to  fight, 
when  I  cannot  choose ;  and  to  eat  no  fish. 

Lear.  What  art  thou  ? 
,    Kent.  A  very  honest-hearted  fellow,  and  as  poor  as  the  king. 

Lear.  If  thou  be  as  poor  for  a  subject,  as  he  is  for  a  king,  thou  art 
poor  enough.  What  would'st  thou  ? 

Kent.  Service, 

Lear.  Who  would'st  thou  serve  ? 

Kent.  You. 

Lear.  Dost  thou  know  me,  fellow  ? 

Kent.  No,  sir ;  but  you  have  that  in  your  countenance,  which  I 
would  fain  call  master. 

Lear.  What's  that  ? 

Kent.  Authority. 

Lear.  What  services  C'mst  thou  do  ?     - 

'Kent.  I  can  keep  honest  counsel,  ride,  run,  mar  a  curious  tale  in 
tcllin'g  it,  and  deliver  a  p/ain  message  bluntly  ;  that  which  ordinary 
men  are  fit  for,  I  am  qualiiied  in :  and  the  best  of  me  is  diligence. 

Lear.  How  old  art  thou  ? 

Kent.  Not  so  young,  sir,  to  love  a  woman  for  singing ;  nor  so  old 
to  dote  on  her  for  any  thing :  I  have  years  on  my  back  forty-eight. 

Lear.  Fallow  me ;  thou  shalt  serve  me ;  If  -I  like  thee  no  worse 
after  dinner,  I  will  :not  part  from  thee  yet. — Dinner,  ho,  dinner. — 
Where's  my  knave  ?  my  fool  ?  Go  you,  and  call  my  fool  hither ; 

'  Enter  Steward. 

You,  you,  sirrah,  where's  my  daughter  ?  . 

Slew.^So  please  you, —  [Exit. 

Lear.  What  says  the  fellow*  there  ?  Call  the  clodpoll  back.— 
Whore's  my  fool,  ho? — I  think  the  world's  asleep.— How  now? 
whore's  that  mongrel  ? 

Knight.  He  says,  my  lord,  your  daughter  is  net  well.  ,  - 


270  RHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Lear.  Why  came  not  the  slave  back  to  me  when  I  called  him  ? 

Knight.  Sir,  he  answex'd  me  in  the  roundest  manner,  he  would 
not 

Lear.  He  would  not ! 

Knight.  My  lord,  I  know  not  what  the  matter  is;  but,  to  my 
judgment,  your  highness  is  not  entertain'd  with  that  ceremonious 
affection  as  you  were  wont ;  .there's  a  great  abatement  of  kindness 
appears,'as  well  in  the  general  dependants,  as  in  the  duke  himself 
also,  and  your  daughter. 

Lear. " Ha  !  say'st  thou  so? 

Knight,  t  beseech  you,  pardon  me,  my  lord,  if  I  be  mistaken  :  for 
my  duty  cannot  be  silent,  when  I  think  your  highness  is  wrong'd. 

Lear.  Thou  but  remember'st  me  of  mine  own  conception  ;  I  have 
perceived  a 'most  faint  neglect  of  late ;  which  I  have  rather  blamed  as 
•nine  own  jealous  curiosity,  than  as  a  very  pretence  and  purpose  of 
unkindness :  I  will  further  into't. — But  where's  my  fool  ?  I  have 
not  seen  him  this  two  days. 

Knight.  Since  my  young  lady's  going  into  France,  sir,  the  fool 
hath  much  pined  away. 

Lear.  No  more  of  that ;  I  have  noted  it  well. — 'Go  you,  and  tell 
my  daughter  I  would  speak  with  her. — Go  you,  call  hither  my 
tool. — 

Re-enter  Steward. 
O,  you  sir,  you  sir,  come  you  hither :  Who  am  I,  sir  ? 

Stew.  My  lady's  father. 

Lear.  My  lady's  father  !  my  lord's  knave  :  you  dog !  you  slave ! 
you  cur ! 

Slew.  I  am  none  of  this,  my  lord ;  I  beseech  you,  pardon  me. 

Lear.  Do  you  bandy  looks  with  me,  you  rascal  1      [Striking  him. 

Stew.  I'll  not  be  struck,  my  lord. 

Kent.  Nor  tripped  neither ;  you  base  foot-ball  player. 

[  Tripping  up  his  heels 

Lear.  I  thank  thee,  fellow ;  thou  servest  me,  and  I'll  love  thee. 

Kent.  Come,  sir,  arise,  away ;  I'll  teach  you  differences ;  away, 
away :  If  you  will  measure  your  lubber's  length  again,  tarry  :  but 
away  :  go  to  ;  Have  you  wisdom  ?  so.  [Pushes  the  Steward  out. 

Lear.  Now,  my  friendly  knave,  I  thank  thee :  there's  earnest  of 
thy  service.  [Giving  KENT  money. 

Enter  Fool. 

Fool.  Let  me  hire  him  too  ; — Here's  my  coxcomb. 

[Giving  KEVT  his  cap. 

Lear.  How  now,  my  pretty  knave  ?  how  dost  thou  ? 

Fool.  Sirrah,  you  were  best  take  my  coxcomb. 

Kent.  Why,  fool  r 

Fool.  Why  ?  For  taking  one's  part  that  is  out  of  favor :  Nay,  ar 
thou  canst  not  smile  as "  the  wind  sits,  thou 'It  catch  cold  shortly: 
There,  take  my  coxcomb ;  Why,  this  fellow  has  hahish'd  two  of  his 
daughters,  and  did  the  third  a  blessing  against  his  will ;  if  thou  fol« 


KING    LEAR.  271 

low  him,  thou  must  needs  wear  my  coxcomb.— How  now,  nuncle  1 
'Would  I  had  two  coxcombs,  and  two  daughters  ! 
Lear.  Why,  my  boy  ? 

Fool.  If  I  gave  them  all  my  living,  I'd  keep  my  coxcombs  myself: 
There's  mine  ;  beg  another  of  thy  daughters. 
Lear.  Take  heed,  sirrah  ;  the  whip. 

Fool.  Truth's  a  dog  that  must  to  kennel ;  he  must  be  whipp'd  out, 
when  Lady,  the  brach,  may  stand  by  the  fire. 
Lear.  A  pestilent  gall  to  me  ! 
Fool.  Sirrah,  I'll  teach  thee  a  speech. 
Lear.  Do. 
Fool.  Mark  it,  nuncle  : — 

Have  more  than  thou  showest, 
Speak  less  than  thou  knowest, 
Lend  less  tlian  thou  owest, 
'  Ride  more  than  thou  goest, 
Learn  more  than  thou  trowest, 
Set  less  than  thou  throwest ; 
And  thou  shalt  have  more 
Than  two  tens  to  a  score. 
Lear.  This  is  nothing,  fool. 

Fool.  Then  'tis  like  the  breath  of  an  unfee'd  lawyer ;  you  gave 
me  nothing  for 't :  Can  you  make  no  use  of  nothing,  nuncle  ? 
Lear.  Why,  no,  boy  ;  nothing  can  be  made  out  of  nothing. 
Fool.  Pr'ythee,  tell  him,  so  much  the  rent  of  his  land  comes  to ; 
he  will  not  believe  thee.  [To  KENT. 

-Lear.  A  bitter  fool ! 

Fool.  Dost  thou  know  the  difference,  my  boy,  between  a  bitter 
fool  and  a  sweet  one  1 
Lear.  No,  lad  ;  teach  me. 
Fool.  That  lord,  that  counselled  thee 

To  give  away  thy  land,  - 
Come  place  him  here  by  me, — 

Or  do  thou  for  him  stand : 
The  sweet  and  bitter  fool 
Will  presently  appear ; 
The  one  in  motley  here, 

The  other  found  our.  there, 
Lear.  Dost  thou  call  me  a  fool,  boy  ? 

Fool.  AH  thy  other  titles  thou  hast  given  away ;  that  thou  wast 
born  with.  t 

Kent.  This  is  not  altogether  fool,  my  lord. 

-  Fool.  Thou  hadst  little  wit  in  thy.  bald  crown,  when  thou  gavest 
thy  golden  one  .away.  -.If  I  speak"  like  myself  .in  this,  let  him  be 
\vhipp'd  that  first  finds  it  so. 

Fools  had  ne'er  less  grace  in  a  year ;  [Singing, 

For  wise  men  are  grown  foppish ; 
And  know  not  how  their  wits,  to  wear, 
Their  manners  are  so  apish. 


272  SHAKSPEi'RIAN    READER. 

Lear.  When  were  you  wort  to  be  so  full  of  songs,  sirrah  ? 
Fool.  I  have  used  it,  nuncio,  ever  since  thou  madest  thy  daughters 
thv  mother. 

Then  they  for  sudden  joy  did  weep,  [Singing, 

And  I  for  sorrow  sung. 
That  such  a  king  should  play  bo-peep, 

And  go  the  fools  among. 

•Pr'ythee,  nuncle,  keep  a  schoolmaster  that  can  .teach  thy  fool  to  lie; 
I  would  fain  learn  to  lie. 

Lear.  If  you  lie,  sirrah,  we'll  have  you  whjpp'd. 
Fool.  I  marvel,  what  kin  thou  and  thy  daughters  are  :  they'll  have 
me  whipp'd  for  speaking  true,  thou'lt  have  me  whipp'd  for  lying ; 
and,  sometimes,  I  am  whipp'd  for  holding  my  peace.  I  had  rather  be 
any  kind  of  thing  than  a  fool :  and  yet  I  would  riot  be  thee,  nuncle ; 
thou  hast  pared  thy  wit  o'  both  sides,  and  lelt  nothing  in  the  middle  • 
Here  comes  one  o'  the  parings. 

Enter  GONERIL. 

Lear.  How  now,  daughter  ?  what  makes  that  frontlet  on  ?  Mo- 
thinks,  you  aro  too  much  of  late  i'  the  frown. 

Gon.  Not  only,  sir,  this  your  all-licens'd  fool,      .  j 

But  other  of  your  insolent  retinue 
Do  hourly  carp  and  quarrel ;  breaking  forth 
In  rank  and  not-to-be-endured  riots.     Sir, 
I  had  thought,  by  making  this  well  known  unto  you, 
To  have  found  a  safe  redress :  but  now  grow  fearful, 
By  what  yourself  too  late  have  spoke  and  done, 
That  you  protect  this  course,  and  put  it  on 
By  your  allowance ;  which,  if  you  should,  the  fault 
Would  not  'scape  censure,  nor  the  redresses  sleep ; 
Which,  in  the  tender  of  a  wholesome  weal, 
Might  in  their  working  do  you  that  offence. 
Which  else  were  shame,  that  then  necessity 
Will  call  discreet  proceeding. 
-     Lear.  Are  you  our  daughter  ? 

Gon.  Come,  sir,  I  would  you  would  make  use  of  that  good  wis 
dom  whereof  I  know  you  are  fraught ;  and  put  away  these  disposi- 
tions, which  of  late  transform  you  from  what  you  rightly  are. 

Lear.  Docs  any  here  know  me  ? — Why  this  is  not  Lear :  does 
Lear  walk  thus  ?  speak  thus  ?  Where  are  his  eyes  ?  Either  his 
notion  weakens,  or  his  discernings  are  lethargied. — Sleeping  or 
waking  ?— Ha  !  sure  'tis  not  so.— Who  is  it  that  can  tell  me  who  I 
am  ? — Loir's  shadow  ?  I  would  learn  that ;  for  by  the  marks  of 
sovereignty,  knowledge,  and  reason,  I  should  be  false  persuaded  I 
had  daughters. — Your  name,  fair  gentlewoman  ? 

Gon.  Come,  sir : 

This  admiration  is  much  o'  the  favor 
Of  other  your  new  pranks.     I  do  beseech  you 
To  understand  my  purposes  aright : 


KING    LEAR.  273 


As  you  are  old  and  reverend,  you  should  be  wise : 

Here  do  you  keep  a  hundred  knights  and  squires; 

Men  so  disorder'd,  so  debauch'd  and  bold, 

That  this  our  court,  infected  with  their  manners, 

Shows  like  a  riotous  inn  more 

Than  a  grac'd  palace  :  The  shame  itself  doth  speak 

For  instant  remedy  :  Be  then  desir'd 

By  her,  that  else  will  take  the  thing  she  begs, 

A  little  to  disquantity  your  train ; 

And  the  remainder,  that  shall  still  depend, 

To  be  such  men  as  may  besort  your  age, 

And  know  themselves  and  you. 

Lear.  Darkness  and  devils  ! — 

Saddle  my  horses  ;  call  my  train  together. — 
Degenerate  viper !    I'll  not  trouble  thee ; 
Yet  have  I  left  a  daughter. 

Gon.  You  strike  my  people  ;  and  your  disorder'd  ratblc 
Make  servants  of  their  betters. 

Enter  ALBANY. 

Lear.  Woe,  that  too  late  repents, — O,  sir.  are  you  come  ? 
Is  it  your  will  ? — [To  ALB.] — Speak,  sir.— Prepare  my  horses  I 
Ingratitude  !  thou  marble-hearted  fiend,. 
More  hideous,  when  thou  show'st  thee  in  a  child, 
Than  the  sea-monster  ! 

Alb.  Pray,  sir,  be  patient. 

Lear.  Detested  kite !  thouliest:  [To  GONEKH* 

My  train  are  men  of  choice  and  rarest  parts, 
That  all  particulars  of  duty  know ; 
And  in  the  most  exact  regard  support 
The  worships  of  their  name.-— O  most  small  fault, 
How  ugly  didst  ;hou  in  Cordelia  show  ! 
Which,  like  an  engine,  wrench'd  my  frame  of  nature 
From  the  fix'd  place ;  drew  from  my  heart  all  love, 
And  added  to  the  gall.     O  Lear,  Lear,  Lear .' 

Beat  at  this  gate,  that  let  thy  folly  in,  [Striking  his  heai* 

And  thy  dear  judgment  out ! — Go,  go,  my  people. 

Alb.  My  lord,  I  am  guiltless,  as  I  am  ignorant 
Of  what  hath  mov'd  you. 

Lear.  What !  fifty  of  my  followers,  at  a  clap, 
Within  a  fortnight  ? 

Alb.  W'hat's  the  matter,  sir  ?. 

Lear.  I'll  tell  thee  ; — Life  and  death !    I  am  asham'd 
That  thou  hast  power  to  shake  my  manhood  thus :        [To  GONESIL, 
That  these  hot  tears,  which  break  from  me  perforce, 
Should  make  thee  worth  them. — Blasts  and  fogs  upon  thee  ! 
The  untented  woundirigs  of  a  father's  curse 
Pierce  every  sense  about  thee  ! — Old  fond  eyes, 
Boweep  this  cause  again,  I'll  pluck  you  out  • 

13* 


274  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

And  cast  you,  with  the  waters  that  you  lose, 
To  temper  clay  : — Ha !  is  it  come  to  this  ? 
Let  it  be  so  :— Yet  have  I  left  a  daughter, 
Who,  I  am  sure,  is  kind  and  comfortable  ; 
When  she  shall  hear  this  of  thee,  with  her  nails 
She'll  flay  thy  wolfish  visage.     Thou  shalt  find, 
That  I'll  resume  the  shape  which  thou  dost  think 
I  have  cast  off  forever;  thou  shalt,  I  warrant  thee. 

[Exeunt  LEAR,  KENT,  and  Attendants. 

ACT  II. 

Lear  dispatches  Kent  to  the  court  of  the  Duke  of  Cornwall,  to  announce  his  intention 
of  taking  up  his  residence  with  his  daughter  Regan.  The  Duke  and  his  wife  are  at  tho 
Castle  of  Gloster,  where  they  are  found  by  Kent.  The  sturdy  old  man  chastises  the 
insolence  of  a  servitor  of  GoneriPs,  and  is  placed  in  the  stocks,  by  the  order  oT  Regap 
Lear,  not  finding  Regan  at  her  own  castle,  seeks  her  at  the  Duke  of  Gloster's. 

SCENE— Before  Gloster's  Castle. 
Enter  LEAR,  Fool,  and  Gentleman. 

Lear.  'Tis  strange,  that  they  should  so  depart  from  home, 
And  not  send  back  my  messenger. 

Gent.  As  I  learn'd, 

The  night  before  there  was  no  purpose  in  them 
Of  this  remove. 

Kent.  Hail  to  thee,  noble  master  ! 

Lear.  How ! 
Mak'st  thou  this  shame  thy  pastime  ? 

Kent.  No,  my  lord. 

Fool.  Ha,  ha  ;  look !  he  wears  cruel  garters  !  Horses  are  tiorl  by 
the  heads  ;  dogs,  and  bears,  by  the  neck ;  monjceys  by  the  loins,  and 
men  by  the  legs.  v 

Lear.  What's  he,  that  hath  so  much  thy  place i  mistook"      .. 
To  set  thee  here  ? 

Kent.  It  is  both  he  and  she, 

Your  son  and  daughter. 

Lear.  No. 

Kent.  Yes. 

Lear.  No,  I  s&y. 

Kent.  I  say,  yea. 

Lear.  No,  no  ;  they  would  not. 

Kent.  Yes  they  have. 

Lear.  By  Jupiter,  I  swear,  no. 

Kent.  By  Juno,  I  swear,  ay. 

Lear.  They  durst  not  do't ; 

They  could  not,  would1  not  do'J ;  'tis  worse  than  murder. 
To  do  upon  respect  such  violent  outrage  : 
Resolve  me,  with  all  modest"  haste,  which  way 


KING    LEAR.  275 

Thou  might'st  deserve,  or  they  impose,  this  usage, 
Coming  from  us. 

Kent.  My  lord,  when  at  their  home 

f  did  'commend  your  highness5  letters  to  them, 
Ere  I  was  risen  from  the  place  that  show'd 
•'My  duty  kneeling,  came  there  a  reeking  post, 
Stew'd  in  his  haste,  half  breathless,  panting  forth 
From  Goneril  his  mistress,  salutations  ; 
•  Delivefd  letters,  spite  of.  intermission, 
Which  presently  they  read  :  on  whose  contents 
They  summon'd  up  their  meiny,  straight  took  horse; 
Commanded  me  to  follow,  and  attend 
The  leisure  of  their  answer ;  gave  me  cold  looks : 
And  meeting  here  the  other  messenger, 
Whose  welcome,  T  perceiv'd,  had  poison'd  mine, 
(Being  the  very  fellow  that  o£  late 
Display'd  so  saucily  against  your  highness,) 
Having  more  man  than  wif  about  me,  drew ; 
He  rais'd  the  house  with  loud  and  coward  cries  : 
Your  son  and  daughter  found  this  trespass  worth 
The  shame  -which  here  it  suffers. 

Fool.  Winter's  not  gone  yet,  if  the  wild  geese  fly  that  way. 
Fathers,  that  wear  rags, 

Do  make  their  children  blind; 
But  fathers,  that  bear  bags, 

Shall  see  their  children  kind. 

But,  for  all  this,  thou  shalt  have  as  many  dolors  for  thy  daughters 
as  thou  canst  tell  in  a  year. 

Lear.  O,  how  this  mother  swells  up  toward  my  heart ! 
Down,  thou  climbing  sorrow,  thy  element's  below! 
Where  is  this  daughter  ? 

Kent.  With  the  earl,  sir  here  within. 
ij&ar.  Follow  me  not ; 

Stay  here. s  [Exit. 

Gent.  Made  you  no  more  offence  than  what  you  speak  of  ? 
Kent.  None. 
How  chance  the  king  comes  with  so  small  a  train  ?  * 

Fool.  An  thou  hadst  been  set  i'  the  stools  for  that  question,  thou 
hadst  well  deserved  it. 
Kent.  Why,  fool  ? 

Fool.  We'll  set  thee  to  school  to  an  ?nl,  to  teach  thee  there's  no 
laboring  in  the  winter.  All  that  fellow  their  noses  are  led  by  their 
eyes,  but  blind  men.  Let  go  thy  hold,  when  a  great  wheel  runa 
down  a  hill,  lest  it  break  thy  neck  with  following  it ;  but  the  grea( 
one  that  goes  up  the  hill,  let  him  draw  thee  after.  When  a  wise 
man  gives  tlwe  better  counsel,  give  me  mine  again :  I  would  have 
none  but  knaves  follow  it,  since  a  fool  gives  it. 

Tnat,  sir,  which  serves  and  seeks  for  gain, 
And  follows  but  for  form, 


276  SHAKSrEARIAN    READER. 

Will  pack,  when  it  begins  to  rain, 

And  leave  thee  in  the  storm. 
But  1  will  tarry  ;  the  fool  will  stay, 

And  let  the  wise  man  fly  : 
The  knave  turns  fool,  that  runs  away ; 

The  fool  no  knave,  perdy. 
Kent.  Where  learn'd  you  this,  fool  ? 
Fool.  Not  f  the  stocks,  fool. 

Re-enter  LEAR,  with  GLOSTER. 

Lear.  Deny  to  speak  with  me  ?  They  are  sick  ?  they  are  weary  1 
They  have  travell'd  hard  to-night  ?  Mere  fetches 
The  images  of  re  volt  and  flying  off! 
Fetch  me  a  better  answer. 

Glo.  My  dear  lord, 

You  know  the  fiery  quality  of  the  duke 
How  unremovable'and  fix'd  he  is 
In  his  own  course. 

Lear.  Vengeance  !  plague  !  death  !  confusion  ! — 
Fiery?  what, quality ?  why,  Gloster,  Gloster, 
I'd  speak  with  the  duke  of  Cornwall,  and  his  wife. 

Glo.  Well,  my  good  lord,  I  have  inform'd  them  so. 

Lear.  Inform'd  them  !  Dost  thou  understand  me,  man  ? 

Glo.  Ay,  my  good  lord. 

Lear.  The  king  would  speak  with  Cornwall ;  the  dear  father 
Would  with  his  daughter  speak,  commands  her  service  : 

Are  they  inform'd  of  this  ?- My  breath  and  blood  ! — 

Fiery  ?  the  fiery  duke  ?— Tell  the  hot  duke,  that— 

No,  but  not  yet : — may  be,  he  is  not  well : 

Infirmity  doth  still  neglect  all  office, 

Whereto  our  health  is  bound  ;  we  are  not  ourselves, 

When  nature,  being  oppress'd,  commands  the  mind  , 

To  suffer  with  the  body  :  I'll  forbear ; 

And  am  fallen  out  with  my  more  headier  will, 

To  take  the  indispos'd  and  sickly  fit 

For  the  sound  man. — Death  on  my  state  !  wherefore 

•  [Looking  on  KENT 

Should  he  sit  here  ?     This  act  persuades  me. 
That  this  remotion  of  the  duke  and  her 
Is  practice  only.     Give  me  my  servant  forth  : 
Go,  tell  the  duke  and  his  wife,  I'd  spea.k  with  them, 
Now,  presently  :  bid  them  come  forth  and  hear  me, 
Or  at  their  chamber  door  I'll  beat  the  drum, 
Till  it  cry — Sleep  to  death. 

Glo.  I'd  have  all  well  betwixt  you.  [Exit 

Lear.  O  me,  my  heart,  my  rising  heart !— but,  down. 

Enter  CORNWALL,  REGAN,  GLOSTER,  and  Servants. 
Good  morrow  to  you  both. 


KING    LEAR.  277 

C'orw.  Hail  to  your  grace  ! 

[KENT  is  set  at  liberty 

Reg.  I  am  glad  to  see  your  highness. 

Lear.  Regan,  I  think  you  are ;  I  know  what  reason 
I  have  to  think  so :  if  thou  should'st  not  be  glad, 
I  would  divorce  me  from  thy  mother's  tomb. 
Beloved  Regan, 

.Thy  sister's  naught :  O  Regan,  she  hath  tied 
Sharp-tooth'd  unkindness,  like  a  vulture,  here, — 

[Points  to  Us  heart. 

I  can  scarce  speak  to  ihee  ;  thou'lt  not  believe, 
Of  how  deprav'd  a  quality— O  Regan  ! 

Reg.  I  pray  you,  sir,  take  patience  ;  I  have  hope, 
You  less,  know  how  to  value  her  desert, 
Than  she  to  scant  her  duty. 

Lear.  Say,  how  is  that  ? 

Reg.  I  cannot  think,  my  sister  in  the  least 
Would1  fail  her  obligation :  if,  sir,  perchance,    . 
She  have  restrain'd  the  riots  of  your  followers, 
'Tis  on  such  ground,  and  to  such  wholesome  end, 
As  clears  her  from  all  blame. 

Lear.  My  curses  on  her  ! 

Reg,  O,  sir,  you  are  old  , 

Naiare  in  you  stands  on  the  very  verge 
Of  her  confine :  you  should  be  rul'd,  and  led 
By,  some  discretion,  that  discerns  your  state 
.Better  than  you  yourself:  Therefore,  I  pray  you, 
That  to  our  sister  you  do  make  return : 
Say,  you  have  wrong'd  her,  sir. 

Lear.  Ask  her  forgiveness  ? 

Do  you  but  mark  how  this  becomes  the  house  ? 
Dear  daughter,  I  confess  that  I  am  old ; 

Age  is  unnecessary:  on  ?ny  knees  I  beg,  [Kneeling 

That  you'll  •vouchsafe  me  raiment,  bed,  and  food. 

Reg.  Good  sir,  no  more  ;  these  are  unsightly  tricks  : 
Return  you  to  my  sister. 

Lear.'  Never,  Regan : 

She  hath  abated  me  of  half  my  train ; 
Look'd  black  upon  me  ;  struck  me  with  her  tongue, 
Mos*  serpent-like,  upon  the  very  heart : — 
All  the  stor'd  vengeances  of  heaven  fall 
On  her  ungrateful  top  !     Strike  her  young  bones- 
You  taking  airs,  with  lameness  ! 

Corn.  Fye,  fye,  fye  ! 

Lear.  You  nimble  lightnings,  dart  your  blinding  flames 
Into  her  scornful  eyes  !     Infect  her  beauty. 
You  fen-suck'd  fogs,  drawn  by  the  powerful  sun, 
To  fall  and  blast  her  pride  ! 

Reg.  Othp  blest  gods  I 


278  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

So  will  you  wish  on  me,  when  the  rash  mood's  oij. 

Lear.  No,  Regan,  thou  shalt  never  have  my  curse  ; 
Thy  tender-hefted  nature  shall  not  give 
Thee  o'er  to  harshness ;  her  eyes  are  fierce,  but  thine 
Do  comfort,  and  not  burn  :  "Pis  not  in  thee 
To  grudge  my  pleasures,  to  cut  off  my  train. 
To  bandy  hasty  words,  to  scant  my  sizes, 
And,  in  conclusion,  to  oppose  the  bolt 
Against  my  coming  in  :  thou  better  know'st 
The  offices  of'  nature,  bond  of  childhood, 
Effects  of  courtesy,  dues  of  gratitude ; 
Thy  half  o'  the  kingdom  hast  thou  not  forgot, 
Wherein  I  thee  endow'd. 

Reg.  Good  sir,  to  the  purpose. 

{Trum^ls  withm 

Lear.  Who  put  my  man  i'  the  stocks  ? 

Corn.  What  trumpet's  that  ? 

Enter  Steward. 

Reg.  I  know't,  my  sister's :  this  approves  her  letter. 
That  she  would  soon  be  here. — Is  your  lady  come  ? 

Lear.  This  is 'a  slave,  whose  easy-borrow'd  pride 
Dwells  in  the  fickle  grace  of  her  he  follows  :  — 
Out,  varlet,  from  my  sight ! 

Corn.  What  means  your  grace  ? 

Lear.  Who  stock'd  my  servant  ?     Regan,  I  have  good  hope 
Thou  didst  not  know  oft. — Who  comes  here  ?     O,  heavens, 

Enter  GONERIL. 

If  you  do  love  old  men,  if  your  sweet  sway 

Allow  obedience,  if  yourselves  are  old, 

Make  it  your  cause  :  send  down,  and  take  my  part  ! — 

Art  not  asham'd  to  look  upon  this  beard  ? —  [To  GONEUIL 

O,  Regan,  wilt  thou  take  her  by  the  hand  ? 

Gon.  Why  not  by  the  hand,  sir  ?    How  have  I  offended  ? 
All's  not  offence,  that  indiscretion  .finds, 
And  dotage  terms  so. 

Lear.  0,  sides,  you  are  too  tough ! 

Will  you  yet  hold  ? — How  came  my  man  i'  the  stocks  ? 

Corn.  I  set  him  there,  sir  :  but  his  own  disorders 
Deserv'd  much  less  advancement. 

Lear.  You  !  did  you  ? 

Reg.  I  pray  you,  father,  being  weak,  seem  so. 
If,  till  the  expiration  of  your  month, 
You  will  return  and  sojourn  with  my  sister, 
Dismissing  half  your  train,  come  then  to  me ; 
I  am  now  from  home,  and  out  of  that  provision 
Which  shall  be  needful  for  your  entertainment. 

Lear   Return  to  her,  and  fifty  men  dismissal  i 


KING   LEAR.  270 

No,  rather  I  abjure  all  roofs,  and  choose 

To  wage  against  the  enmity  o'  the  air ; 

To  be  a  comrade  with  the  wolf  and  owl, — 

Meceseity's  sharp  pinch  ! — Return  with  her  ? 

Why,  the  hot-blooded  France,  that  dowerless  took     - 

Oar  youngest  born,  I  could  as  well  be  brought 

To  knee  his  throne,  and,  squire-like,  pension  beg 

To  keep  base  life  afoot : — Return  with  her  ? 

Persuade  me  rather  to  be  slave  and  sumpter 

To  this  detested  groom.  [Looking  on  ike.  Steward 

Gon.  At  your  choice,  sir. 

Lear.  I  pr'ythee,  daughter,  do  not  make  me  mad; 
I  will  not  trouble  thee,  my  child ;  farewell : 
Vye'll  no  more  meet,  no  more  see  one  another : — 
But  yet  thou  art  my  flesh,  my  blood,  my  daughter ; 
Or,  rather  a  disease  that's  in  my  flesh, 
Which  I  must  needs  call  mine  ;  thou  art  a  boil, 
A  plague-sore,  an  embossed  carbuncle, 
In  my  corrupted  blood.     But  I'll  not  chide  thee ; 
Let  shame  come  when  it  will,  I  do  not  call  it : 
I  do  not  bid  the  thunder-bearer  shoot, 
Nor  tell  tales  of  thee  to  high-judging  Jove  : 
Mend,  when  thou  canst ;  be  better,  at  thy  leisure : 
I  can  be  patient ;  I  can  stay  with  Regan, 
I,  and  my  hundred  knights. 

Reg.  Not  altogether  so,  sir ; 

I  look'd  not  for  you  yet,  nor  am  provided 
For  your  fit  welcome :  Give  ear,  sir,  to  my  sister ; 
For  those  that  mingle  reason  with  your  passion 
Must  be  content  to  think  you  old,  and  so — 
But  she  knows  what  she  does. 
*   Lear.  Is  this  well  spoken  ^nov/  ? 

Reg.  I  dare  avouch  it,  sir :    What,  fifty  followers  ? 
Is  it  not  well  ?     What  should  you  need  of  more  ? 
Yea,  or  so  many  ?  sith  that  both  charge  and  danger 
Speak  'gainst  so  great  a  number  ?     How,  in  one  house, 
Should  many  people,  under  two  commands, 
Hold  amity  ?     'Tis  hard ;  almost  impossible. 

Gon.  Why  might  not  you,  my  lord,  receive  attendance, 
From  those  that  she  calls  servants,  or  from  mine  ? 

Reg.  Why  not,  my  lord  ?    If  then  they  chanc'd  to  slack  voii> 
We  could  control  them :  If  you  will  come  to  me,          . 
(For  now  I  spy  a  danger,)  I  entreat  you 
To  bring  but  five  and  twenty ;  to  no  more 
Will  I  give  place,  or  notice. 

Lear.  I  gave  you  all — 

Reg.  And  in  good  time  you  gave  it 

Lear.  Made  you  my  guardians,  my  depositaries ; 
But  kept  a  reservation  to  be  follow'd 


290  SHAKSiEARIAN    READER. 

With  suchr  a  number  :  What,  must  I  come  to  you  "   . 

With  five  and  twenty,  Hegan  ?  said  you  so  ? 

Reg.  And  speak  it  again,  my  lord  ;  no  more  with  me. 

Lear.  Those^ wicked  creatures  yet  do  look  well  favor'd,    , 
When  others  are  more  wicked  ;  not  being  the  worst, 
Stands  in  some  rank  of  praise  : — I'll  go  with  thee ;       [To  GONERIL 
Thy  fifty -yet  doth  double  five  and  twenty, 
And  thou  art  twice  her  love. 

Gon.  Hear  me,  my  lord  ; 

What  .need  you  five  and  twenty,  ten,  or  five, 
To  follow  in  a  house,  where  twice  so  many 
Have  a  command  to  tend  you  ? 

Reg.      ,  What  need  one  ? 

Lear.  O,  reason  not  the  need :  our  basest  bep^ars 
Are  in  the  poorest  thing  superfluous  : 
Allow  npt  nature  more  than  nature  needs, 
Man's  life  is  cheap  as  beast's  :  thou  art  a  lady ; 
If  only  to  go  warm  were  gorgeous, 
Why,  nature  needs  not  what  thou  gorgeous  wear'sl, 
Which  scarcely  keeps  thee  warm. — But,  for  true  need, 
You  heavens,  give  me  that  patience,  patience  I  need ! 
You  see  me  here,  you  gods,  a  poor  old  man, 
As  full  of  grief  as  age  ;  wretched  in  both ! 
If  it  be  you  that  stir  these  daughters'  hearts 
Against  their  father,  fool  me  not  so  much 
To  bear  it  tamely  ;  touch  me  with  noble  anger ! 
O,  let  not  woman's  weapons,  water-drops, 
Stain  my  man's  cheeks  ! — No,  you  unnatural  hags, 
I  will  have  such  revenges  on  you  both, 
That  all  the  world  shall — I  will  do  such  things, — 
What  they  are,  yet  I  know  not ;  but  they  shall  be 
The  terrors  of  the  earth.     You  think,  I'll  weep, 
No,  I'll  not  weep : 

I  have  full  cause  of  weeping ;  but  this  heart 
Shall  break  into  a  hundred,  thousand  flaws,  . 
Or  ere  I'll  weep  : — O,  fool,  I  shall  go  mad  ! 

[Exeunt  LEAR,  GLOSTEE,  KENT  and  Fool 

Corn.  Let  us  withdraw,  'twill  be  a  storm. 

[Storm  heard  at  a  distance 

Reg.  This  house 

Is  little  ;  the  old  man  and  his  people  cannot 
Be  well  bestow'd. 

Gon.  'Tis  his  own  blame ;  he  hath  put 
Himself  from  rest,  and  must  needs  taste  his  folly. 

Reg.  For  his  particular,  I'll  receive  him  gladly, 
But  not  one  follower. 

Gon.  So  am  I  purpoa'd. 

Where  is  my  lord  of  Gloster  1 


AING    LEAR.  ,  281 


Re-enter  GLCSTER. 

Corn.  Follow'd  the  old  man  forth  : — he  is  return'd. 

Glo.  The  king  is  in  high  rage. 

Corn.  '  Whither  is  he.  going  ? 

Glo.  He  calls  to  horse ;-  but  will  I  know  not  whither. 

Corn.  'Tis  best  to  give  him  way  ;  he  leads  himself. 

Gon.  My  lord,  entreat  him  by  rib  means  to  stay," 

Glo.  Alack,  the  night  comes  on,  and  the  bleak  winds 
Do  sorely  ruffle ;  for  many  miles  about 
There's  scarce  a  bush. 

Reg.  O,  sir,  to  wilful  men, 

The  injuries,  that  they  themselves  procure, 
Must  be  their  schoolmasters  :  Shut  up  your  doors ; 
He  is  attended  with  a  desperate  train  ; 
And  what  they  may  incense  him  to,  being  apt 
To  have  his  ear  abus'd,  wisdom  bids  fear. 

Corn.  Shut  up  your  doors,  my  lord  ;  'tis  a  wild  night : 
My  Rpgan  counsels  well':  come  'out  o'  the  storm. 

ACT  III. 

Lear,  cast  off  by  his  pitiless  daughters,  wanders  distracted  through  the  country,  accum 
panied  by  his  faithful  Fool.  Kent  is  released,  and  immediately  proceeds  in  search  of  hiz 
royal  master. 

SCENE. — A  Heath.   A  storm  is  heard,  with  thunder  nnd  lightning. 

.  Enter  LEAR,  and  Fool. 

Lear.  Blow,  wind,  and  crack  your  cheeks  !  rage  !  blow  ! 
You  cataracts,  and  hurricanoes,  spout 
Till  you  have  drench'd  our  steeples  ! 
You  sulphurous  a-nd  thought-executing  fires, 
Vaunt  couriers  to  oak-cleaving  thunder-bolts, 
Singe  my  white  head  !     And  thou,  all  shaking  thunder, 
Strike  flat  the  thick  rotundity  o5  the  world  ! 
Crack  nature's  moulds,  all  germins*  spill  at  once, 
That  make  ingrateful  man  ! 

Fool.  Good  nuncle,  in,  and  ask  thy  daughters'  blessing ;  here's  a 
night  pities  neither  wise  men  nor  fools. 

Lear.  Rumble  thy  bellyfull !     Spit,  fire  !  spout,  rain  I 
Nor  rain,  wind,  thunder,  fire,  are  my  daughters : 
I  tax  not  you,  you  elements,  with  unkindness, 
I  never  gave  you  kingdom,  call'd  you  children, 
You  owe  me  no  subscription ;  why  then  let  fall 
Your  horrible  pleasure  ;  here  I  stand,  your  slave,; 
/V  poor,  infirm,  weak,  and  dcspis'd  old  man  : — 

*  Seeds  begun  to  sprout. 


282  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

But  yet  I  call  you  servile  ministers, 

That  have  with  two  pernicious  daughters  join'd 

Your  high  engendered  battles,  'gainst  a  head 

So  old  and  white  as  this.     O !  O  !  'tis  foul  !— 

No,  I  will  be  the  pattern  of  all  patience,  I  will  say  nc  thing 

Enter  KENT. 

Kent.  Alas,  sir,  are  you  here  ?  things  that  love  night, 
Love  not  such  nights  as  these;  the  wrathful  skies 
Gallow  the  very  wanderers  of  the  dark, 
And  make  them  keep  their  caves  :  Since  I  was  man, 
Such  sheets  of  fire,  such  bursts  of  horrid  thunder, 
Such  groans  of  roaring  wind  and  rain,  I  never 
Remember  to  have  heard  :  man's  nature  cannot  carry 
The  affliction,  nor  the  fear. 

Lear.  Let  the  great  gods, 

That  keep  this  dreadful  pother  o'er  our  heads, 
Find  out  their  enemies  now.     Tremble,  thou  'wretch, 
.That  hast  within  thee  undivulged  crimes, 
Unwhipp'd  of  justice  :  Hide  thee,  thou  bloody  hand; 
Thou  perjur'd,  and  thou  simular  man  of  virtue' 
Caitiff,  to  pieces  shake, 
That  under  covert  and  convenient  seeming 
Hast  practis'd  on  man's  life  ! — Close  pent-up  guilts, 
Rive  your  concealing  continents,  and  cry 
These  dreadful  summoners  grace. — I  am  a  man, 
More  sinn'd  against,  than  sinning. 

Kent.  Alack,  bare-headed ! 

Gracious  my  lord,  hard  by  here  is  a  hovel ; 
Some  friendship  will  it  lend  you  'gainst  the  tempest ; 
Repose  you  there :  while  I  to  this  hard  house, 
(More  hard  than  is  the  stone  whereof  'tis  rais'd  ; 
Which  even  but  now,  demanding  after  you, 
Denied  me  to  come  in,)  return,  and  force 
Their  scanted  courtesy. 

Lear.  My  wits  begin  to  turn.*— 

Come  on,  my  boy :  How  dost,  my  boy  ?   Art  cold  ? 
I  am  cold  myself. — Where  is  this  straw,  my  fellow  ? 
The  art  of  our  necessities  is  strange, 
That  can  make -vile  things  precious.     Come,  your  hovel, 
Poor  fool  and  knave,  I  have  one  part  in  my  heart 
That's  sorry  yet  for  thee. 

Fool,  He  that  has  a  little  tiny  wit, — 

With  heigh,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain, — 
Must  make  content  with  his  fortune  fit ; 

For  the  rain  it  raineth  every  day.  .  ' , 

Lear,  True,  my  good  boy. — Come,  bring  us  to  this  hovel. 

[Exeunt  LEAR,  KENT,  and  Fool 


KIN .3    LEAK,  283 

i 

Edgar  escapes  from  the  pursuit  of  his  Father,  and  assumes  tne  disguise  of  a  "  Tom 
of  Bedlam,"  or  madman  He  finds  shelter  on  the  deserted  Heath,  to  which  Lear  has 
wandered.  He  encounters  the  King.  The  assumption  of  madness  by  Edgar  contrast.' 
very  strikingly  with  the  real  insanity  of  Lear,  in  the  two  following  scenes. 

SCENE.— A  Part  of  the  Heath,  with  a  Hovel 

Enter  LEAR,  KENT,  and  Fool. 

Kent.  Here  is  the  place,  my  lord  ;  good  n  y  lord,  en'.er : 
The  tyranny  of  the  open  night's  too  rough 
For  nature  to  endure.  [Storm  still, 

Lear.  Let  me  alone. 

Kent.  Good  my  lord,  enter  here. 

Lear.  Wilt  break  my  heart  ? 

Kent.  I'd  rather  break  mine  own  :  Good  my  lord,  enter. 

Lear.,  Thou  think'st  'tis  much,  that  this  contentious  storm 
Invades  us  to  the  skin :  so  'tis  to  thee ; 
But  where  the  greater  malady  is  fix'd, 
The  lesser  is  scarce  felt.     Thou'dst  shun  a  bear  : 
But  if  thy  flight  lay  toward  the  raging  sea, 
Thou'dst  meet  the  bear  i'  the  mouth.  -  When  the  mind's  free, 
The  body's  delicate :  the  tempest  in  my  mind 
Doth  from  my  senses  take  all  feeling  else, 
Save  what  beats  there. — Filial  ingratitude  ! 
Is  it  not  as  this  rnouth  should  tear  this  hand, 
For  lifting  food  to't  ? — But  I  will  punish  home  :— 
No,  I  will  weep  no  more. — In  such  a  night 
To'  shut  me  out ! — Pour  on  ;  I  will  endure  :— 
In  such  a  night  as  this  !    O  Regan,  Goneril ! — 
Your  old  kind  father,  whose  frank  heart  gave  all, — 
O,  that  way  madness  lies ;  let  me  shun  that ; 
No  more  of  that, — 

Kent.  Good  my  lord,  enter  here. 

Lear.  Pr'ythee,  go  in  thyself;  seek  thine  own  jase  ; 
This  tempest  will  not  give  me  leave  to  ponder 
On  things  would  hurt  me  more. — But  I'll  go  hi : 
In,  boy  ;  go  first. — [  To  tlie  Fool.] — You  houseles;s  poverty,— 
Nay,  get  thee  in.     I'll  pray,*  and  then  I'll  sleep. —        [Fool  goes  ITU 
Poor  naked  wretches,  wheresoe'er  you  are, 
That  bide  the  pelting  of  this  pitiless  storm, 
How  shall  your  houseless  heads,  and  unfed  sides, 
Your  loop'd  and  window'd  raggedness,  defend  you 
From  seasons  such  as  these  ?    O,  I  have  ta'en 
Too  little  care  of  this !    Take  physic,  pomp ; 
Expose  thyself  to  feel  what  wretches  feel ; 
That  thou  may'st  shake  the  supprfiux  to  them. 
And  show  the  heavens  more  just.  [Tom  ! 

Edgar.— [Within.]— Fathom  and  half,  fathom  and  half!     Pool 

[The  Fool  runs  out  oftlie  hovel, 


284  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER, 

Fool.  Come  not  in  here,  uncle,  here's  a  spirit.  Help  me,  help 
me! 

Kent.  Give  me  thy  hand. — Who's  there  ? 

Fool.  A  spirit,  a  spirit ;  he  says  his.  name's  poor  Tom. 

Kent.  What  art  thou  that  dost  grumble  there  i'  the  straw  ? 
Come  forth 

Enter  EDGAR,  disguised  as  a  madman. 

ftdg.  Away  1  the  foul  fiend  follows  me  !- — 
Tiirough  the  sharp  hawthorn  blows  the  cold  wind.-  - 
Humph  !  go  to  thy  cold  bed  and  warm  thee. 

Lear.  Hast  thou  given  all  to  thy'two  daughters'? 
And  art  thou  come  to  this  ?  . 

Edg.  Who  gives  any  thing  to  poor  Tom  ?  whom  the  foul  fiend 
hath  led  through  fire  and  through  flame,  through  ford  and  whirlpool, 
over  bog  and  quagmire ;  that  hath  laid  knives  under  his  pillow,  and 
halters  in  his  pew ;  set  ratsbane  by  his  porridge ;  made  him  proud 
of  heart,  to  ride  on  a  bay  trotting  horse  over  four-inch  bridges,  to 
course  his  own  shadow  for  a  traitor: — Bless  thy  five  wits!  Tom's" 
a-cold. — Bless  thee  from  whirlwinds,  star-blasting,  and  taking !  Do 
poor  Tom  some  charity,  whom  the  foul  fiend  vexes :  There  could  1 
have  him  now, — and  there, — and  there, — and  there  again,  and  there. 

[Storm  continues^ 

Lear,  What,  have  his  daughters  brought  him  to  this  pass  ? — 
Could'st  thou  save  nothing  ?    Didst  thou  give  them  all  ?  .  ; 

Fool.  Nay,  he  reserved  a  blanket,  else  we  had  all  been  ashamed. 

Lear.  Now,  all  the  plagues  that  in  the  pendulous  air 
Hang  fated  o'er  men's  faults,  light  on  thy  daughters ! 

Kent.  He  hath  no  daughters,  sir. 

Lear,.  Death,  traitor !  nothing  could  have  subdu'd  nature 
To  such  a'lowness,  but  his  unkind  daughters. — - 
It  is  the  fashion,  that  discarded  fathers 
Should  have  this  little  mercy  on  their  flesh  ! 
Judicious  punishment !  'twas  this  flesh  begot 
Those  pelican, daughters. 

Fool.  This  cold  night  will  turn  us  all  to  fools  and  madmen^ 

•Edg.  Take  heed  o' the  foul  fiend :  Obey  thy  parents;  keep^tliy 
word  justly;  swear  not;  set  not  thy  sweet  heart  on  proud  array  : 
Tom's  a-cold. 

Lear.  What  hast  thou  been  ? 

Edg.  A  serving-man,  proud  in  heart  and  mind;  that  curled. my 
hftir ;  wore  gloves  in  rny  cap ;  swore  as  many  oaths  as' T  spake 
words,  and  broke  them  in  the  sweet  face  of  heaven. . 

^         [Storm  still  continues. 

Lear.  Why,  thou  wert  better  in  thy  grave,  than  to  answer  with 
thy  uncover'd  body  this  extremity  of  the  skies. — Is  man  no  more 
than  this  ?  Consider  him  well :  Thou  owest  the  worm  no  silk,  the 
beast  no  hide,  the  sheep  no  wool,  the  cat  no  perfume  : — Ha  !  here's 
"Jiree  of  us  are  sophisticated! — Thou  art  the  tiling  itself:  unaccom- 


KING    LEAR.  4<J85 

modated  man  is  no  more  but  such  a  poor,  bare,  forked  animal  as  thou 
art. — Off,  off,  you  lendings  : — Come  ;  unbutton  here. — 

[Tearing  off  MS  dollies. 

Fool.  Pf'ythee,  nuncle,  be  contented  ;  this  is  a  naughty  night  to 
swim  in. — Look,  here'  comes  a  walking  fire. 

Glosler  is  moved  to  pity  the  wrongs  inflicted  on  his  royal  master.  He  incurs  the  dis- 
pleasure of  Cornwall  and  Regan,  is  dispossessed  of  his  Castle,  and  follows  ic  •_  ^rsuit  of 
Lear. 

Enter  GLOSTER,  with  a  torch. 

Lear.  What's  he? 
-  Kent'.  Who's  there  ?  What  is't  you  seek  ? 

Glo.  What  are  you  there  ?  Your  names  ? 

Edg.  -Poor  Tom  ;  that  eats  the  swimming  frog,  the  toad,  the  tad- 
pole, the  wall-newt,  and  the  water ;  who  is  whipped  from  tything  to 
tything,  and  stocked,  punished,  and  imprisoned  ;  who  hath  had  three 
suits  to  his  back,  six  shirts  to  his  body,  horse  to  ride,  and  weapon  to 
wear. 

But  mice,  and  rats,  and  such  small  deer, 
Have  been  Tom's  food  for  seven  long  year. 

Beware  my  follower  : — Peace,  Smolkin ;  peace,  thou  fierd ! 

Glo.  What,  hath  your  grace  no  better  company? 

'Edg.  The  prince  of  darkness  is  a  gentleman  ;  " 
Modo  he's  call'd,  and  Mahu. 

Glo.  Our  flesh  and  blood,  my  lord,  is  grown  so  vile, 
That  it  doth  hate  what  gets  it. 

Edg.  Poor  Tom's  a-cold. 

Glo.  Go  in  with  me  ;  my  duty  Cannot  suffer 
To  ohey  all  your  daughters'  hard  commands  : 
Though  their  injunction  be  to  bar  my  doors, 
Arid  let  this  tyrannous  night  take  hold  upon  you  ; 
Yet  have  I  ventur'd  to  come  seek  you  out, 
And  bring  you  where  both  fire  and  wood  is  ready. 

Lear.  First  let  me  talk  with  this  philosopher  :— 
What  is  the  cause  of  thunder? 

Kent.  Good  my  lord,  take  his  offer ; 
Go  into  the  house. 

Lear.  I'll  talk  a  word  with  this  same  learned  Theban : — • 
What  is  your  study  ? 

Edg.  How  to  prevent  the  fiend,  and  to  kill  vermin. 
,    Lear.  Let  me  ask  you  one  word  in  private. 

Kent.  Importune  him  once  more  to  go,  my  lord, 
His  wits  begin  to  unsettle. 

Glo.  Canst  thou  blame  him  ? 

His  daughters  seek  his  death  : — Ah,  that  good  Kent ! — 
He  said  it  would  be  thus : — Poor  banish'd  man  ! — 
Thou  say'st  the  king  grows  mad  :  I'll  tell  thee,  friend, 
Tarn  almost  mad  myself :.  I  had  a  son, 


OQG  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Now  outlaw'd  from  my  blood :  he  sought  my  life, 

But  lately,  very  late ;  I  lov'd  him,  friend, — 

No  father  his  son  dearer :  true  to  tell  thee,  [  St<r.  m  continue 

The  grief  hath  craz'd  my  wits.     What  a  night's  this ! 

I  do  beseech  your  grace. 

Lear.  O,  cry  you  mercy, 

Noble  philosopher,  your  company. 

Edg.  Tom's  a-cold. 

Glo.  In,  fellow,  there  to  the  hovel :  keep  thee  warm. 

Lear.  Come,  let's  in  all. 

Kerti.  This  way,  my  lord,    , 

Lear.  With  him » 

I  will  keep  still  with  my  philosopher. 

Kent.  Good  my  lord,  soothe  him ;  let  him  tike  the  fellow. 

Glo.  Take  you  him  on.  • 

Kent.  Sirrah,  come  on ;  go  along  with  us. 

Lear.  Come,  good  Athenian. 

Glo.  No  words,  no  words  : 

Hush. 

Edg.  Child  Rowland  to  the  dark  tower  came, 

His  word  was  still, — Fie,  j "oh,  andfum^ 
/  smell  the  blood  of  a  British  man.  \ExeuiU. 

SCENE  VI. 

A  Chamber  in  a  Farm-House,  adjoining  the  Castle.    v 
Enter  GLOSTER,  LEAR,  KENT,  Fool,  and  EDGAR. 

•Glo.  Here  is  better  than  the  open  airj,  tal*e  it  thankfully  :  I  will 
piece  out  the  comfort  with  what  addition  I  can :  I  will .  not  be  long 
from  you. 

Kent.  All  the  power  of  his  wits  has  given  way  to  his  impatience : 
—The  gods  reward  your  kindness  !  -[Exit  GLOSTER. 

Edg.  Frateretto  calls  me ;  and  tells  me,  Nero  is  an  angler  in  the 
lake  of  darkness.  Pray,  innocent,  and  beware  the  foul  fie^nd. 

Fool.  Pr'ythee,  nuncle,  tell  me,  whether  a  madman  be  a  gentle- 
man, or  a  yeoman  ? 

Lear.  A  king,  a  king ! 

Fool.  Mo :  he's  a  yeoman,  that  has  a  gentleman  to  his  son ;  for 
he's  a  mad  yeoman,  that  sees  his  son  a  gentleman  before  him* 

Lear.  To  have  a  thousand  switlr  red  burning  spits 
Come  hizzing  in  upon  them : — 

Edg.  The  foul  fiend  bites  my  back. 

Lear.  It  shall  be  done,  I  will  arraign  them  straight : — 

Come,  sit  thou  here,  most  learned  justicer; [To  EDGAR. 

Thou,  sapient  sir,  sit  here. — [To  the  Fool.] — NJW,  you  she  foxes  ! — 

Edg.  Look,  where  he  stands  and  glares  ! — 
Wantest  thou  eyes  at  trial,  mat&un  ? 


KING    LEAR.  287 

Come  o'er  the  bourn,  Jlessy,  to  me  :—• 
Pool.  Her  boat  hath  a  leak, 

And  she  must  not  speak 
Why  she  dares  not  come  over  to  thee. 
Kent.  How  do  you,  sir  ?  Stand  you  not  so  amaz'd  : 
'Will  youjie  down  and  rest  upon  the  cushions  ? 

-  Lear.  I'll  see  their  trial  first : — Bring  in  the  evidence.— 
.  Thou,  robed  man  of  justice,  take  thy  place  ; —  [To  SDGA.R. 

'And  thou,  his  yoke-fellow  of  equity,  [To  the  Fcol. 

Bench-  by  his  side  : — You  are  of  the  commission,  [Tb  KENT. 

Sit  you  too. 
«,    Edg.  Let  us  deal  justly. 

Steepest  or  wdkest  thau, jolty  shepherd? 

Thy  sheep  be  in. the  corn; 
And-for  one  blast  of  thy  minikin  mouth, 
Thy  sheep  shall  take  no  harm. 

Pur !  the  cat  is  gray. 

Lear.  Arraign  her  first :  'tis  Goneril.  I  here  take  my  oath.beforo 
this  honofable  assembly,  she  kicked  the  poor  king  her  father. 

Fool.  Come  hither,  mistress  ;  Is  your  name  Goneril  ? 

Lear.  She  cannot  deny  it. 

FooL  Cry  you  mercy,  I  took  you  for  a  joint  stool. 

Lear.  And  here's  another,  whose  warp'd  looks  proclaim 
What  store  her  heart  is  made  of. — Stop  her  there  ! 
Arms,  arms,  sword,  fire  ! — Corruption  in  the  place ! 
False  justicer,  why  hast  thou  let  her  'scape  ? 

Edg.  Bless 'thy*  five  wits  ! 

Kent.  O  pity !: — Sir,  where  is  the  patience  now, 
That  you  so  oft  have  boasted  to  retain  ? 

Edg.  My  tears  begin  to  take  his  part  so  much, 
They'll  mar  my  counterfeiting.  [Aside 

Lear.  The  little  dogs  and  all, 

Tray,  Blanch,  and  Sweet-heart,  see,  they  bark  at  me. 
J  Edg.  Tom  will  throw  his  head  at  them  : — A  vaunt,  you  curs! 

Be  thy  mouth  or  black  or  white, 
v  Tooth  that  poisons  if  it  bite ; 
Mastiff,  greyhound,  mongrel  grim, 
Hound,  or  spaniel,  brach,  or  lym ; 
Or  Jx>btail  tike,  or  trundle-tail ;  » 

Tom  will  make  them  weep  and  wail : 
For,  with  throwing  thus  my  head  : 
Dogs  leap  the  hatch,  and  all  are  fled. 

Do  de,  de  de.     Sessa.     Cpme,  march  to  wakes  and  fairs,  and  market 
towns : — Poor  Tom,  thy  horn  is  dry. 

Lear.  Then  let  them  anatomize  Regan,  see  what  breeds  about  her 
heart :  Is  there  any  cause  in  nature,  that  makes  these  hard  hearts  ? 
—You,  sir,  I  entertain  you  for  one  of  my  hundred ;  only,  I  do  not 


S388  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

like  the  fashion  of  your  garments :  you  will  say,. they  are  Persian 
attire  ;  but  let  them  be  changed.  [To  EDGAR. 

Kent.  Now,  good  my  lord,  lie  here,  and  rest  awhile. 

Lear.  Make  no  noise,  make  no  noise  ;  draw  the  curtains  :  So,  so, 
BO  :  We'll  go  -to  supper  i'  the  morning :  So,  so,  so. 

Fool.  And  I'll  go  to  bed  at  noon. 

Re-enter  GLOSTER. 

Glo.  Come  hither,  friend :  Where  is  the  king  my  master  ? 

Kent.  Here,  sir ;  but  trouble  him  not,  his  wits  are  gone. 

Glo.  Good  friend,  I  pr'ythee  take  him  in  thy  arms  ; 
I  have  o'erheard  a  plot  of  death  upon  him  : 
There  is  a  litter  ready ;  lay  him  in't, 
And  drive  towards  Dover,  friend,  where  thou  shalt  meel 
Both  welcome  and  protection.     Take  up  thy  master ; 
If  thou  should'st  dally  half  an  hour,  his  life, 
With  thine,  and  all  that  offer  to  defend  him, 
Stand  in  assured  loss  :  Take  up,  take  up  ; 
And  follow  me,  that  will  to  some  provision 
Give  thee  quick  conduct. 

Kent.  Oppress'd  nature  sleeps: — '•• 

This  rest  might  yet  have  balm'd  thy  broken  senses, 
Which,  if  convenience  will  not  allow, 
Stand  in  hard  cure. — Come,  help  to  bear  thy  master ; 
Thou  must  not  stay  behind.  [To  the  Fool. 

Glo.  Come,  come,  away. 

[Exeunt  KENT,  GLOSTER,  and  the  Fool,  bearing  ojfthe  KJNQ.- 

Edg.  When  we  our  betters  see  bearing  our  woes, 
We  scarcely  think  our  miseries  our  foes. 
Who  alone  suffers,  suffers  most  i'  .the  mind  ; 
Leaving  free  things,  and  happy  shows,  behind  : 
But  then  the  mind  much  sufferance  doth  o'erskip. 
When  grief  hath  mates,  and  bearing  fellowship. 
How  light  and  portable  my  pain  seems  now, 
When  that,  which  makes  me  bend,  makes  the  king  bow ; 
He  childed,  as  1  father'd ! — Tom,  away  : 
Mark  the  high  noises  :  and  thyself  bewray, 
When  false  opinion,  whose  wrong  thought  denies  thee, 
In  thy  just  proof,  repeals,  and  reconciles  thee. 
What  will  hap  more  to-night,  save  'scape  the  king ! 
Lurk,  lurk.  [Exit, 

ACT  IV. 

Regan  and  Cornwall  issue  orders  to  Edmund  to  seek  out  his  Father,  and  bring  him 
back  to  the  Castle.  Gloster  is  overtaken,  and  is  punished  for-  his  connniseration  towards 
the  King,  by  the  loss  of  his  eyes.  In  (his  stale  he  is  carried  back  to  the  Heath,  and  is  there 
euteounteied  by  his  Son  Edgar. 


KING    LEAR.  289 


SCENE.!.—  The  Heath. 

Enter  EDGAR 

.  Edg.  Yet  better  thus,  and  known  to  be  contemn'd, 
Than  still  contemn'd  and  flatter'd.     To  be  worst, 
The  lowest,  and  most  dejected  thing  of  fortune 
Stands  still  in  esperance,  lives  not  in  fear  : 
The  lamentable  change  is  from  the  best  ; 
The  worst  returns  to  laughter.     Welcome  then, 
Thou  unsubstantial  air,  that  I  embrace  ! 
The  wretch,  that  thou  hast  blown  unto  the  worst, 
Owes  nothing  to  thy  blasts.  —  But  who  comes  here  ?  — 

Enter  GLOSTER,  led  by  (in  Old  Man. 

My  father,  poorly  led  ?     World,  world,  O  world  ! 
13  ut  that  thy  strange  mutations  make  us  hate  thee, 
\Life  would  not  yield  to  age. 

Old  Man.  O  my  good  lord,  I  have  been  your  tenant,  and 
father's  tenant,  these  fourscore  years. 

Glo.  Away,  get  thee  away  ;  good  friend,  be  gone  : 
Thy  comforts  can  do  me  no  good  at  all, 
Thee  they  may  hurt. 

Old  Man.  Alack,  sir,  you  cannot  see  your  way. 

Glo.  I  have  no  way,  and  therefore  want  no  eyes  ; 
I  stumbled  when  I  saw  :  Full  oft  'tis  seen, 
Our  mearj  secures  us  ;  and  our  mere  defects 
Prove  our  commodities.  —  Ah,  dear  son  Edgar,     .  ' 
The  food  of  thy  abused  father's  wrath! 
Might  I  but  live  to  see  thee  in  my  touch, 
I'd1  say,  I  had  eyes  again  ! 

6ld  Man.  How  now  ?     Who's  there  ? 

Edg.  [Aside.  \  O  gods  !  who  is't  can  say,  /  am  at  the  worst  f 
1  am  worse  than  e'er  I  was. 

Old  Man.  'Tis  poor  mad  Tom. 

Edg.  [Aside.]  And  worse  I  may  be  yet  :  The  worst  is  not, 
So  long  as  we  can  say,  This  is  the  worst. 

Old  Man.  Fellow,  where  goest  ? 

Glo.  Is  it  a  beggar  man  ? 

Old  Man.  Madman  and  beggar  too, 

Glo.  He  has  some  reason,  else  he  could  not  beg. 
P  the  last  night's  storm  I  such  a  fellow  saw  ; 
Which  made1  me  think  a  man  a  worm  :  My  son 
Came  then  into  my  mind  ;  and  yet  my  mind 
Was  then  scarce  friends  with  him. 

Edg.     '  How  should  this  be  ? 

Bad  is  the  trade  must  play  the  fool  to  sorrow, 
Ang'ring  itself  and  others.—  [Aside.]—  Bless  thee,  master! 

Glo.  Is  that  the  naked  fellow  ? 

Old  Man.  Ay,  my  lord. 


290  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Glo.  Then,  pr'ythee,  get  thee  gone  '.  If,  for  my  sake, 
Thou  wilt  o'ertake  us,  hence  'a  mile  or  twain, 
I'  the  way  to  Dover,  do  it  for  ancient  love ; 
And  bring  some  covering  for  this  naked  soul, 
Whom  I'll  entreat  to  lead  me. 

Old  Man.  Alack,  sir,  he's  mad. 

Glo.  'Tis  the  times'  plague  when  madmen  lead  the  blind; 
Do  as  I  bid  thee;  or  rather  do  thy  pleasure ; 
Above  the  rest,  be  gone, 

Old  Man.  I'll  bring  him  the  best  'parel  that  I  have, 
Come  on't  what  will.  [Exit. 

Glo.  Sirrah,  naked  fellow. 

Edg.  Poor  Tom's  u-cold. — I  cannot  daub  it  further.,  [Aside. 

Glo.  Come  hither,  fellow. 

Edg.  [Aside.]  And  yet  I  must — Bless  thy  swivt  eyes,  they 
bleed. 

Glo.  Know'st  thou  the  way  to  Dover  ? 

Edg.  Both  stile  and  gate,  horse- way,  and  foot-pal  h      Poor  Tom  - 
hath  been  scared  out  of  his  good  wits".  Bless  the  good  man  from  the 
foul  fiend  ! 

Glo.  Here,  take  this  purse,  tlrm  whom  the  heaven's  plagues 
Have  humblecl  to  nil  strokes  :  that  I  am  wretched, 
Makes  thee  the  happier  : — Heavens,  deal  so  still ! 
Let  the  superfluous,  that  will  not  sen 
Because  he  doth  not  feel,  feel  your  povcj'  quickly  ; 
So  distribution  should  undo  excess, 
And  each  man  have  enough. — Dost  thot;  know  Dover  ? 

Edg.  Ay,  master. 

Glo.  There  is  a  cliff,  whose  high  and  bencMng  head 
Looks  fearfully  in  the  confined  deep : 
Bring  me  but  to  the  very  brim  of  it, 
And  I'll  repair  the  misery  thou  dost  bear, 
With  something  rich  about  me  :  from  that  place 
I  shall  no  leading  need. 

Edg.  Give  me  thy  arm  ; 

Px>r  Tom  shall  lead  thee.  [Exeunt, 

Edgai,  fctil!  unknown  to  his  father,  leads  him  to  a  spot  whicl  hw  boa-.i(  Telly  describes  a3 
being  Dove:  Cliffs. 

The  whole  scene-is  exquisitely  wrought  up. 

,   SCENE  VI.— The  Country  near  Dcver, 
Re-enter  GLOSTER,  and  EDGAR  dressed  like  a  peasant. 

Glo.  When  shall  we  como  to  the  top  -of  that  same  hill  ? , 
Edg.  You  do  clirnrj  up  it  now  :  look  how  we  labor. 
Glo.  Methinks,  the  ground  is  even. 
Edg.  .•      Horrible  steep: 

Hark,  do  you  hear  the  sea  ?' 

Glo.  No,  trulv. 


KING    LEAR.  291 

Edg.  Why,  t.ien  your  other  senses  grow- imperfect 
By  your  eye*'  anguish. 

Glo.  So  may  it  be,  indeed  : 

Methinks,  thy  voice  is  alter'd  :  and  thou  speak'st 
In  better  phrase,  and  matter, -than  thou  didst. 

Edg.  You  are  much  'deceiv'd  :  in  nothing  am  I  chang'd, 
But  in  my  garments. 

Glo.    '  Methinks,  you  are  better  spoken. 

Edg.  Come  on,  sir :  here's  the  place  ; — stand  still — How  fearful 
And  dizzy  'tis,  to  cast  one's  eyes  so  low  !  - 
The  crows,  and  choughs,  that  wing  the  midway  air 
Show  scarce  so  gross  as  beetles  :  Half  way  down 
Hangs  one  that  gathers  samphire  ;  dreadful  trade  i 
Me  think  s,  he  seems  no  bigger  than  his  head  : 
Tb.e  fishermen,  that  walk  upon  the  beach, 
Appear  like  mice  ;  and  yon  tall  anchoring  bark  * 
Diminish'd  to  her  boat,  her  boat  a  buoy 
Almost  too  small  for  sight :  The  murmuring  surge, 
That  on  the  unnumber'd  idle  pebbles  chafes, 
Cannot  be  heard  so  high : — I'll  look  no  more, 
Lest  my  brain  turn,  and  the  deficient  sight 
Topple  down  headlong. 
'    Glo.  Set  me  where  you  stand. 

Edg.  Give  me  your  hand  :  You  are  now  within  a  foot 
Of  the  extreme  verge  :*for  all  beneath  the  moon 
Would  I  not  leap  upright. 

•Glo.  Let  go  my  hand: 

Here,  friend,  is  another  purse  ;  in  it,  a  jewel 
Well  worth  a  poor  man's  taking :  Go  thou  further  off; 
Bid  me  farewell,  and  let  me  hear  thee  going. 

Edg.  Now  fare  you  well,  good  sir.  [Seem*  io  go. 

Glo.  With  all  my  heart. 

Edg.  Why  I  do  trifle  thus  with  his  despair, 
Is  done  to  cure  it. 

Glo.  O  you  mighty  gods  ! 

This  world  I  do  renounce  ;  and,  in  your  sights 
Shake  patiently  my  great  affliction  off: 
If  I  could  bear  it  longer,  and  not  fall 
To  quarrel  with  your  great  opposeless  wills, 
My  snuff,  and  loathed  part  of  nature,  should 
Burn  itself  out.     If  Edgar  lives,  O,  bless  him  ! — 
Now,  fellow,  fare  thee  well.  [He  leaps,  and  falls  along. 

Edg.  Gone,  sir  ?  farewell.— 

And  yet  I  know  not  how  conceit  may  rob 
The  treasury  of  life,  when  life  itself 
Yields  to  the  theft :  Had  he  been  where  he  thought, 
By  this,  had  th  night  been  past. — Alive,  or  dead  ? 
Ho,  you  sir  !  friend  ! — Hear  you,  sir  ? — speak  ! 


292  SHAKSPEAHIAN    READER. 

Thus  might  he  pass  indeed : — Yet  he  revives  : 
What  are  you,  sir  ? 

Glo.  Away,  and  let  me  die. 

Edg.  Hadst  thou  been  aught  but  gossamer,  feathers,  air 
So  many  fathom  down  precipitating, 
Thou  hadst  shiver'd  like  an  egg :  but  thou  dost  breathe ; 
Hast  heavy  substance  ;  bleedst  not ;  speak'st;  art  sound. 
Ten  masts  at  each  make  not  the  altitude, 
Which  tliou  hast  perpendicularly  fell ; 
Thy  life's  a  miracle  :  Speak  yet  again; 

Glo.  But  have  I  fallen,  or  no  ?  , 

Edg.  From  the  dread  summit  of  this  chalky  bourn : 
Look  up  a-height ; — the  shrill-gorg'd  lark  so  far 
Cannot  be  seen  or  heard  :  do  but  look  up. 

Glo.  Alack,  I  have  no  eyes. — 
Is  wretchedness  depriv'd  that  benefit, 
Tc  end  itself  by  death  ?     'Twas  yet  some  comfort, 
When  misery  could  beguile  the  tyrant's  rage, 
And  frustrate  his  proud  will. 

Edg.  Give  me  yo.uf  arm : 

Up  : — So ; — How  is't  ?    Feel  you  your  legs  ?     You  star  d. 

Glo.  Too  well,  too" well. 

Edg.  This  is  above  all  strangeness. 

Upon  the  crown  o'  the  cliff,  what  thing  was  that 
Which  parted  from  you  ? 

Glo.  A  poor  unfortunate  beggar. 

Edg.  As  I  stood  here  below,  methought,  his  eyes 
Were  two  full  moons ;  he  had  a  thousand  noses, 
Horns  whelk'd,  and  wav'd  like  the  enridged  sea  ; 
It  was  some  fiend  :  Therefore,  thou  happy  father, 
Think  that  the  clearest  gods,  who  make  them  honors 
Of  men's  impossibilities,  have  preserv'd  thee. 

Glo.  I  do  remember  now  :  henceforth  I'll  bear 
Affliction,  till  it  do  cry  out  itself, 
Enough,  enough,  and  die.     That  thing  you  speak  of, 
1  took  it  for  a  man ;  often  'twould  say, 
The  fiend,  the  fiend:  he  led  me  to  that  place. 

Edg.  Bear  free  and  patient  thoughts.     But  who  comes  here  \ 

Enter  LEAR,  fantastically  dressed  up  with  flowers. 
The  safer  sense  will  ne'er  accommodate 
His  .naster  thus. 

Lear.  No,  they  cannot  touch  me  for  coining  : 
I  am  the  king  himself. 
.  Edg.  O  thou  side-piercing  sight'! 

Lear.  Nature's  above  art  in  tiiat  respect. — Give  the  word. 

Edg.  Sweet  mirjoram. 

Lear.  Pass. 

Glo.  I  know  that  voice. 

Lea/    Ha !  Goneril ! — with  a  white   beard ! — They  flatter'd   me 


KING    LEAK.         •  293 

like  a  dog ;  and  told  me,  I  had  whi:e  hairs  in  my  beard,  ere  the  black 
ones  were  there.  To  say  ay  and  no,  to  every  thing  I  said  ' — Ay  and 
no  too  was  no  good  divinity.  When  the  rain  came  to  wet  me  once, 
and  the  wind  to  make  me  chatter;  when  the  thunder  would  not 
peace  at  my  bidding ;  there  I  found  them,  there  I  smelt  them  out. 
Go  to,  they  are  riot  men  o'  their  words :  they  told  me  I  was  every 
thing ;  'tis  a  lie  ;  I  am  not  ague-proof. 

Glo~  The  trick  of  that  voice  I  do  well  remember  : 
[s't  i^ot  the  king  ? 

Lrtzr.  Ay,  every  inch  a  king  : 

When  I  do  stare,  see  how  the  subject  quakes. 
I  pardon  that  man's  life. 
••  Glo.  O,  let  me  kiss  that  hand ! 

Lear.  Let  me  wipe  it  first ;  it  smells  of  mortality. 

Glo.  O  ruin'd  piece  of  nature !     This  great  world 
Shall  so  wear  out  to  nought. — Dost  thou  know  me  ? 

Lear.  I  remember  thine  eyes  well  enough. — Read  thou  this  <jiia  < 
lenge ;  mark  but  the  penning  of  it. 

Glo.  Were  all  the  letters  suns,  I  could  not  see  one. 

Edg.  I  would  not  take  this  from  report ; — it  is, 
And  my  heart  breaks  at  it. 

Lear.  Read. 

Glo.  What,  with  the  case  of  eyes  ? 

Lear.  O,  ho,  are  you  there  with  me  ?  No  eyes  in  your  r/ead,  nor 
no  money  in  your  purse?  Your  eyes  are  in  a  heavy  case,  yo-" 
purse  in  a  light.  Yet  you  see  how  this  world  goes. 

Glo.  I  see  it  feelingly. 

Lear.  What,  art  mad?  A  man  may  see  how  this  world  goes, 
with  no  eyes.  Look  with  thine  ears  :  see  how  yon'  justice  rails  upon 
yon'  simple  thief.  Hark,  in  thine  ear  :  Change*  places  ;  and,  handy- 
dandy,  which  is  the  justice,  which  is  the  thief? — Thou  hast  seen  i 
'farmer's  dog  bark  at  a  beggar  ? 
-  Glo.  Ay,  sir  ? 

Lear.  And  the  creature  run  from  the  cur  ? 
There  thou  might' st  behold  the  great  image  of  authority :  a  dog'«* 

obeyed  in-  office. — 

Through  tatter'd  clothes  small  vices  do  appear ; 
Robes,  and  furr'd  gowns,  hide  all.     Plate  sin  with  gold, 
And  the  strong  lance  of  justice  hurtless  breaks  : 
Arm  it  in  rags,  a  pig-ny's  straw  doth  pierce  it. 
None  does  offend,  none.     I  say,  none  ;  I'll  able  'em : 
Take  that  of  me,  my  friend,  who  have  the  power 
To  seal  the  accuser's  lips.     Get  thee  glass  eyes ; 
And,  like  a  scurvy  politician,  seem 
To  see  the  things  thou  dost  not.— Now,  now,  now,  now ; 
Pull  off  in)  boots  : — harder,  harder  ;  so. 

Edg.  O,  matter  and  impertinency  mix'd  ! 
Reason  in  madness ! 

Lear.  If  thou  wilt  weep  my  fortunes,  take  my  eyes. 


21) I         •  .        SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

I  know  thee  well  enough  ;  thy  name  is  Gloster : 
Thou  must  be  patient ;  we  came  crying  hither. 
Thou  know'st,  the  first  time  that  we  smell  the  air, 
We  wawl,  and  cry  : — I  will  preach  to  thee  ;  mark  mo. 

Glo.  Alack,  alack,  the  day  ! 

Lear.  When  we  are  born,  we  cry,  that  we  are  come 

To  this  great  stage  of  fools ; This  a  good  block  ? — 

It  were  a  delicate  stratagem,  to  shoe 
A  troop  of  horses  with  felt :  I'll 'put  it  in  proof; 
Aud  when  I  have  stolen  upon  these  sons-in-law, 
Then, "kill,  kill,  kill,  kill,  kill,  kill. 

Enter  a  Gentleman,  with  Attendants. 

GenL  O,  here  he  is ;  lay  hand  upon  him. — Sir, 
Your  most  dear  daughter 

Lear.  No  rescue  ?     What,  a  prisoner  ?     I  am  even 
The  natural  fool  of  fortune. — Use  me  well ; 
You  shall  have  ransom.     Let  me  have  a  surgeon, 
I  am  cut  to  the  brains. 

Gent.  You  shall  have  any  thing. 

Lear.  No  seconds  ?  all  myself? 
Why,  this  would  make  a  man,  a  man  of  salt, 
To  use  his  eyes  for  garden  water-pots, 
Ay,  and  for  laying  autumn's  dust. 

Gent.  Good  sir,— 

Lear.  T  will  die  bravely,  like  a  bridegroom ;  What  ? 
I  will  be  jovial ;  come,  come  ;  I  am  a  king, 
My  masters,  know  you  that  ? 

Gent.  You  are  a  royal  one,  and  we  obey  you. 

Lear.  Th«?a  there's  life  in  it.  Nay,  an  you  get  it,  you  shall  get 
it  by  running.  Sa,  sa,  sa,  sa.  [Exit  running ;  Attendants  follow. 

Cordelia  learns  the  unnatural  treatment  her  Father  has  received  from  Regan  and  Gon- 
enl,  and  proceeds  with  her  husband,  the  Kin;,'  of  France,  and  a  numerous  army,  to  rescue 
Lear,  and  punish  her  sisters.  She. finds  the  wretched  old  King,  in  great  misery,  and 
entirely  bereft  of  reason.  He  is  conveyed  to  the  French  camp. 

SCENE.— A  Tent  in  the  French  Camp.— LEAR  on  a  Bed,  asleep ; 

Physicians,  Gentlemen,  and  others  attending. 

Enter  CORDELIA,  and  KENT. 

Cor.  O  thou  good  Kent,  how  shall  I  live,  and  work, 
To.  match  thy  goodness  ?  My  life  will  be  too  short, 
And  every  measure  fail  me. 

Kent.  To  be  acknowledg'd,  madam,  is  o'erpaid. 
All  my  reports  go  with  the  modest  truth ; 
Nor  more,  nor  clipp'd,  but  so. 

Cor.  Be  better  suited  : 

These  weeds  are  memories  of  those  worser  hours ; 
I  pr'ythee,  put  them  off. 

Kent.  Pardon  me,  dear  madam ; 


KING    LEAR.  295 

A 

Yet  to  be  known,  shortens  my  made  intent  • 
My  boon  I  make  it,  that  you. know  me  not, 
•Till  time  and  I  think  meet. 

Cor.  Then  be  it.  so,  my  good  lord. — How  does  the  king  ? 

[To  the  Physician 

Phys.  Madam,  sleeps  still. 

Cor.  O  you  kind  gods, 
Cure  this  great  breach  in  his  abused  nature ! 
The  untun'd  and  jarring  senses,  O,  wind  up, 
Of  this  child-changed  father ! 

Phys.  So  please  your  majesty, 

That  we  may  wake  the  king  ?  he  hath  slept  long.     . 

Cor.  Be  govern'd  by  your  knowledge,  and  proceed 
I'  the  sway  of  your  own  will.     Is  he  array'd  ? 

Gent.  Ay,  madam  ;  in  the  heaviness  of  his  sleep. 
We  put  fresh  garments  on  him. 

Phys.  Be  by,  good  madam,  when  we  do  awake  him ; 
I  doubt  not  of  his  'temperance. 

Cor. "Very  well. 

Phys.  Please  you,  draw  near. 

Cor.  O  my  dear  father  !  Restoration,  hang 
Thy  medicine  on  my  lips ;  and  let  this  kiss 
Repair  those  violent  harms,  that  my  two  sisters 
Have  in  thy  reverence  made  ! 

Kent.  Kind  and  dear  princess ! 

Cor.  Had  you  not  been  their  father,  these  white  flakes 
Had  challeng'd  pity  of  them.     Was  this  a  face 
To  be  expos'd  against  the  warring  winds  ? 
To  stand  against  the  deep  dread-bolted  thunder  ? 
In  the  most  terrible  and  nimble  stroke 
Of  quick,  cross-lightning  ?  to  watch  (poor  perdu  !) 
With  this  thin  helm  ?  Mine  enemy's  dog, 
Though  he  had  bii  me,  should  have  stood  that  nigh 
Against  my  fire  ;  And  wast  thou  fain,  poor  father, 
To  hovel  thee  with  swine,  and  rogues  forlorn, 
In  shorty  and  musty  straw  ?  Alack,  alack  ! 
'Tis  wonder,  that  thy  life  and  wits  at  once 
Had  not  concluded  all. — He  wakes ;  speak  to  him. 

Phys.  Madam,  do  you  ;  'tis  fittest. 

•  Cor.  How  does  my  royal  lord  ?  How  fares  your  majesty  * 

Lear.  You  do  me  wong,  to  take  me  oiit  o'the  grave  : — 
Thou  art  a  soul  in  bliss  ;  but  I  am  bound 
Upon  a  wheel  of  fire,  that  mine  own  tears 
Po  scald  like  molten  lead. 

Cor.  Sir,  do  you  know  me  ? 

Lear.  You  are  a  spirit,  I  know  ;  When  did  you  die  ? 

Cor.  Still,  still,  far  wide  ! 

Phys.  He's  scarce  awake ;  let  him  alone  awhile. 


I  am 


Lear.  Where  have  I  been  ?  Where  am  I  ? — Fair  daylight?—. 
im  mightily  abns'd. — I  should  even  die  with  pity, 


296  ,  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

To  see  another  thus. — I  know  not  what  to  say.— 
I  will  not  swear,  these  are  my  hands  : — let's  see 
I  feel  this  pii.  prick.     'Would  I  were  assur'd 
Of  my  condition. 

Cor.  O,  look  upon  me,  sir, 

And  hold  your  hands  in  benediction  o'er  me  ;— 
No,  sir,  you  must  not  kneel. 

Lear.  Pray,  do  not  mock  rne : 

I  am  a  very  foolish  fond  old  man, 
Fourscore  and  upward  ;  and,  to  deal  plainly, 
I  fear,  I  am  not  in  my  perfect  mind. 
Methinks,  I  should  know  you,  and  know  this  man  ; 
Yet  I  am  doubtful ;  for  I  am  mainly  ignorant 
What  place  this  is  :  and  all  the  skill  I  have 
Remembers  not  these  garments  ;  nor  I  know  not 
Where  I  did  lodge  last  night :  Do  not  laugh  at  me  • 
For,  as  I  am  a  man,  I  think  this  lady 
To  be  my  child  Cordelia. 

Cor.  And  so  I  am,  I  am. 

Lear.  Be  your  tears  wet  ?  Yes,  'faith.     I  pray.,  ur&*p  not : 
If  you  have  poison  for  me,  I  will  drink  it. 
J  know,  you  do  not  love  me  ;  for  your  sisters 
Have,  as  I  do  remember,  done  me  wrong : 
You  have  some  cause,  they  have  not. 

Cor.  No  cause,  no  cause. 

•  Lear.  Am  I  in  France  ! 

Kent.  In  your  own  kingdom,  sir. 

Lear.  Do  not  abuse  me. 

Pliys.  Be  comforted,  good  madam  ;  the  great  rage, 
You  see,  is  cur'd  in  him  :  and  yet  it  is  danger 
To  make  him  even  o'er  the  time  he  has  lost. 
Desire  him  to  go  in  ;  trouble  him  no  more, 
Till  further  settling. 

Cor.  WilPt  please  your  highness  walk  ? 

Lear.  You  must  bo*  with  me 

Pray  now,  forget  and  forgive  :  I  am  old,  and  foolish, 

[Exeunt  LEAR,  CORDELIA,  Physician,  and  Attend 

ACT  V. 

Lear  is  restored  to  reason,  and  aided  by  the  forces  of  Fran<n,  .nakes  war  against  th* 
Dukes  of  Cornwall  and  Albany,  whose  armies  are  led  on  by  Edmund,  created  by  them 
Earl  of  Gloster.  The  King,  and  Cordelia  are  defeated,  and  made  prisoners. 

SCENE.— The  British  Camp  n^^r  Dover. 

Enter,  in  conquest,  with  drum  and  colors,  EDMUND  ;  LEAR,  and  COR» 

DELIA,  as  prisoners ;  Officers,  {Soldiers,  <f-c. 
Edm..  Some  officers  take  them  away  :  good  guard  J 
Until  their  greater  pleasures  first, be  kr.owa  v  „ . 

That  are  to  censure  thdra. 


KING    LEAR.    •  U97 

Cor.  We  are  not  the  first, 

Who,  with  best  meaning,  have  incurr'd  the  worst. 
F'pr  iiiee,  oppressed  king,  am  I  cast  down ; 
Myself  could  else  out-frown  false  fortune's  frown.— 
Shall  we  not  see  these  daughters,  and  these  sisters  ? 

Lear.  No,  no,  no,  no  !  Come,  let's  away  to  prison : 
We  two  alone  will  sing  like  birds  i'  the  cage  : 
When  thou  dost  ask  me  blessing,  I'll  kneel  down, 
And  ask  of  thee  forgiveness  :  So  we'll  live, 
And  pray,  and  sing,  and  tell  old  tales,  and  laugh 
At  gilded  butterflies,  and  hear  poor  rogues 
Talk  of  court  news  ;  and  we'll  talk  with  them  too, — 
Who  loses,  and  who  wins  ;  who's  in,  who's  out  • — 
And  take  upon  us  the  mystery  of  things, 
As  if  we  were  Heaven's  spies  :  And  we'll  wear  out, 
In  a  wall'd  prison,  packs  and  sects  of  great  ones, 
That  ebb  and  flow  by  the  moon. 

Edm.  Take  them  away. 

Lear.  Upon  such  sacrifices,  my  Cordelia, 
The  gods  themselves  throw  incense.     Have  I  caught  thee  ? 
He  that  parts  us,  shall  bring  a  brand  from  heaven, 
And  fire  us  hence,  like  foxes.     Wipe  thine  eyes ; 
They  shall  not  make  us  weep :  we'll  see  them  starve  first. 
Come.  [Exeunt  LEAR,  arid  CORDELIA,  guarded. 

Lear  and  his  daughter  are  conveyed  to  Prison,  and  orders  are  given  by  Albany  t6 
hang  Cordelia. 

Punknment  now  overtakes  the  guilty  Regan  and  Goneril.  In  pursuing  thei.  cnlaw 
ful  fove  towards  Edmund,  Regan,  through  jealousy,  poisons  her  sister,  and  then  dies  by 
her  own  hand. 

Edmund  receives  the  reward  of  his  crimes  from  Edgar,  who  challenges  him  to  single 
sombat  and  slays  him.  Gloster  is  reconciled  to  his  son,  and  the  Play  ends  with  the  death 
of  Lear. 

SCENE.— A  Prison. 

Enter  LEAR,  with  CQRDELIA  deaddn  Ms  arms;  EDGAR,  Officer, 
and  others. 

Lear.  Howl,  howl,  howl,  howl !: — O,  you  are  men  of  stones ; 
Had  I  your  tongues  and  eyes,  I'd  use  them  so 
Tnat  heaven's  vault  should  crack  : — O,  she  is  gone  for  e  rer  !— 
I  know  when  one  is  dead,  and  when  one  lives ; 
''She's  dead  as  earth  :— Lend  me  a  looking-glass ; 
If  that  her  breath  will  mist  or  stain  the  stone, 
Why,  then  she  lives. 

K*nt.  Is  this  the  promis'd  end  ? 

Edg.  Or  image  of  that  horror  ? 

Lear.  This  feather  stirs  ;  she"  lives  !  if  it  be  so, 
It  is  a  chance  that  does  redeem  all  sorrows 
That  ever  I  have  felt. 

Kent.  O  my  good  master !  .   [Kneeting. 


298  SIIAKSPEARIAN   READER. 

Lear,  Pr'y  Jiee  away. 
.  Lair,  'Tis  noble  Kent.  yor.r  friend 

Lear.  A  plague  upon  you,  murderers,  traitors  all ! 
I  might  have  sav'd  her  ;  now  she's  gone  for  ever ! — 
Cordelia,  Cordelia,  stay  a  little.     Ha  ! 
What  is't  thou  say'st  ? — Her  voice  was  ever  soft, 
Gentle,  and  low :  an  excellent  thing  in  woman  :— 
I  kill'd  the  slave  that  was  a  hanging  thee. 

Off.  'Tis  true,  my  lords,  he  did. 

Lear.  Did  I  not,  fellow  1 

I  have  seen  the  day,  with  my  good  biting  falchion     ( 
I  would  have  made  them  skip :  I  am  old  now, 
And  these  same  crosses  spoil  me. — Who  are  you  ? 
Mine  eyes  are  none  o'  the  best : — I'll  tell  you  straight. 

Kent.  If  fortune  brag  of  two  she  lov'd  and  hated, 
One  of  them  we  behold. 

Lear.  This  is  a  dull  sight :  Are  you  not  Kent  ? 

Kent.  The  same. 

Tour  servant  Kent :  Where  is  your  servant  Caius  2 

Lear.  He's  a  good  fellow,  I  can  tell  you  that ; 
He'll  strike,  and  quickly  too :  He's  dead  and  rotten. 

Kent.  No,  my  good  lord  ;  I  am  the  very  man  ; — 

Lear.  I'll  see  that  straight. 

Kent.  That,  from  your  first  of  difference  and  decay, 
Have  follow'd  your  sad  steps. 

Lear.  You  are  welcome  hither. 

Kent.  Nor  no  man  else  ;  all's  cheerless,  dark,  and  dead.y.— 
Your  eldest  daughters  have  fore-doom'd  themselves, 
And  desperately  are  dead. 

Lear.  And  my  poor  fool  is  hang'd  !    No,  no,  no  life : 
Why  should  a  dog,  a  horse,  a  rat,  have  life, 
And  thou  no  breath  at  all  ?     O,  thou  wilt  come  no  riore. 
Never,  never,  never,  never,  never ! — 
Pray  you,  undo  this  button  :  Thank  you,  sir  — 
Do  you  see  this  ?    Look  on  her, — look, — her  lips, — 
Loot;  there,  look  there  ! —  [  He  dial. 


MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


This  Play1  is  considered  by  the  critics  to  have  "  all  the  merit  of  entire  originality  of 
1  ot  and  incident."  The  traditions  of  all  Europe  and  the  East,  furnished  the  leading 
dea  of  fairy  character,  while  classical  and  mythological  history  has  been  drawn  upon  foi 
he  heroical  personages. 

Our  selections  from  this  brilliant,  poetical  composition,  are  confined  to  the  action  of 
the  Drama,  as  connected  with  the  "  princely  loves  "  of  Theseus  and  Hippolyta,  and  the 
Athenian  Lovers.  The  humorous  under-plots  we  are  unwillingly  compe'letf.  to  omit  from 
want  of  space. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


THESEUS,  Duke  of  Athens. 
EGEUS,  father  to  Hermia. 


PHILOSTRATE,  master  nf  the  revels  to  Theseus. 

QUINCE,  the  carpenter. 

SNUG,  the  joiner. 

BOTTOM,  the  weaver. 

FLUTE,  the  bellows-mender. 

SNOUT,  the  tinker. 

STARVELING,  the  tailoi 

HIPPOLTTA,  Queen  of  the  Amazons,  betrothed  to  Theseus. 
HERMIA,  daughter  to  Egeus,  in  love  with  Lysander. 
HELENA,  in  love  with  Demetrius. 
OBERON,  king  of  the  fairies. 
TITANIA,  queen  of  the  fairies. 
PUCK,  or  Robin-goodfellow,  a  fairy. 
PEAS-BLOSSOM,  COBWEB,  MOTH,  MUSTARD-SEED,  fairies. 
Pyramus,  Thisbe,  Wall,  Moonshine,  Lion,  characters  in  the  In« 
terlude  performed  by  the  Clowns. 

Other  Fairies  attending  their  King  and  Queen. 
Attendants  on  Theseus  and  Hippolyta. 

SCENE,—  ATHENS;  and  a  Wood  not  far  from  it. 


800  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

ACT  I. 

SCENE  I.— Athens.     A  Room  in  the  Palace  of  Theseus, 
Enter  THESEUS,  HIPPOLYTA,  PHILOSTRATE,  and  Attendants. 

""te.  Now,  fair  Hippolyta,  our  nuptial  hour 
Draws  on  apace  ;  four  happy  days  bring  in 
A/ot'ier  moon  ;  but,  oh,  methinks,  how  slow 
This  old  moon  wanes !  she  lingers  my  desires, 
Like  to  a  step-dame,  or  a  dowager, 
Long  withering  out  a  young  man's  revenue. 

Hip.  Four  days  will  quickly  steep  themselves  in  nights , 
Four  nights  will  quickly  dream  away  the  time  ; 
And  then  the  moon,  like  to  a  silver  bow 
Now  bent  in  heaven,  shall  behold  the  night 
Of  our  solemnities. 

The.  Go,  Philostrate, 

Stir  up  the  Athenian  youth  to  merriments ; 
Awake  the  pert  and  nimble  spirit  of  mirth  ; 
Turn  melancholy  forth  to  funerals, 

The  pale  companion  is  not  for  our  pomp. —        |  Exit  PHJL.OSTRATK 
Hippolrta,  I  woo'd  thee  with  my  sword, 
And  won  thy  love,  doing  thee  injuries  ; 
But  I  will  wed  thee  in  another  key, 
With  pomp,  with  triumph,  and  with  revelling. 

Enter  ESETJS,  HERMIA,  LYSANDER,  and  DEMETRIUS. 

re.  Happy  be  Theseus,  our  renowned  duke  ! 
s.  Thanks,  good  Egeus  :    What's  the  news  with  thee  ? 
Ege,  Full  of  vexation  come  I,  with  complaint 
Against  my  child,  my  daughter  Hermia. — 
Stand  forth,  Demetrius  ; — My  noble  lord, 
This  man  hath  my  consent  to  marry  her : — 
Stand  forth,  Lysander  ; — and,  my  gracious  duke, 
This  hath  bewitch'd  the  bosom  of  my  child  : 
Thou,  thou,  Lysander,  thou  hast  given  her  rhymes, 
And  interchang'd  love-tokens  with  my  child  : 
Thou  hast  by  moonlight  at  her  window  sung, 
With  feigning  voice,  verses  of  feigning  love  ; 
And  stol'n  the  impression  of  her  fantasy 
With  bracelets  of  thy  hair,  rings,  gawds,  conceits, 
Knacks,  trifles,  nosegays,  sweetmeats  ;  messengers 
Of  strong  prevailment  in  unharden'd  youth  : 
With  cunning  hast  thou  filch'd  my  daughter's  heart, 
Turn'd  her  obedience,  which  is  due  to  me, 
To  stubborn  harshness  : — And,  my  gracious  duke, 
Be  it  so  she  will  not  here  before  your  grace 


MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM.  301 

Consent  to  mairy  with  Demetrius, 
I  beg  the  ancient  privilege  of  Athens ; 
As  she  is  mine,  I  may  dispose  of  her : 
Which  shall  be  either  to  this  gentleman, 
Or  to  her  death  ;  according  to  our  law, 
Immediately  provided  in  that  case. 

The.  What  say  you,  Hermia  ?  be  advis'd,  fair  maid : 
To  you  your  father  should  be  as  a  god  ; 
One  that  compos'd  your  beauties  ;  yea,  and  one 
To  whom  you  are  but  as  a  form  in  wax, 
By  him  imprinted,  and  within  his  power 
To  leave  the  figure,  or  disfigure  it. 
Demetrius  is  a  worthy  gentleman. 

Her.  So  is  Lysander. 

The.  In  himself  he  is : 

But,  in  this  kind,  wanting  your  father's  voice, 
The  other  must  be  held  the  worthier. 

Her.  I  would,  my  father  look'd  but  with  my  eyes. 

The.  Rather  your  eyes  must  with  his  judgment  look. 

Her.  I  do  entreat  your  grace  to  pardon  me. 
I  know  not  by  what  power  I  am  made  bold ; 
Nor  how  it  may  concern  my  modesty, 
In  such  a  presence  here  to  plead  my  thoughts : 
But  I  beseech  your  grace  that  I  may  know 
The  worst  that  may  befal  me  in  this  case, 
If  I  refuse  to  wed  Demetrius. 

The.  Either  to  die  the  death,  or  to  abjure 
For  ever  the  society  of  men. 
Therefore,  fair  Hermia,  question  your  desires, 
Know  of  your  youth,  examine  well  your  blood, 
Whether,  if  you  yield  not  to  your  father's  choice, 
You  can  endure  the  livery  of  a  nun; 
For  aye  to  be  in  shady  cloister  mew'd, 
Chanting  taint  hymns  to  the  cold  fruitless  moon. 
Thrice  blessed  they,  that  master  so  their  blood, 
To  undergo  such  maiden  pilgrimage  : 
But  earthlier  happy  is  the  rose  distill'd, 
Than  that,  which,  withering  on  the  virp-in  thorn, 
Grows,  lives,  and  dies,  in  Single  blessedness. 

Her.  So  will  I  grow,  so  live,  so  die,  my  lord. 

The.  Take  time  to  pause  ;  and,  by  the  next  new  moon, 
(The  sealing-day  betwixt  my  love  and  me, 
For  everlasting  bond  of  fellowship,) 
Upon  that  day  either  prepare  to  die, 
For  disobedience  to  your  father's  will ; 
Or  else,  to  wed  Demetrius,  as  he  would : 
Or  on  Diana's  altar  to  protest, 
For  aye,  austerity  and  single  life. 


802  SHAKSPEARIAN   READER. 

Dem.  Relent,  sweet  Hermia  ;— And,*Lysander,  yield 
Thy  crazed  title  to  my  certain  right. 

Lys.  You  have  her  father's  love,  Demetrius ; 
Let  me  have  Hermia's  :  do  you  marry  him. 

Ege.  Scornful  Lysander  !  true  he  hath  my  love ; 
And  what  is  mine  my  love  shall  render  him ; 
And  she  is  mine  ;  and  all  my  right  of  her 
I  do  estate  unto  Demetrius. 

Lys.  I  am,  my  lord,  as  well  deriv'd  as  he, 
As  well  possess'd  ;  my  love  is  more  than  his ; 
My  fortunes  every  way  as  fairly  rank'd, 
If  not  with  vantage,  as  Demetrius  ; 
Ana,  which  is  more  than  all  these  boasts  can  be, 
I  am  belov'd  of  beauteous  Hermia  : 
Why  should  not  I  then  prosecute  my  right  * 
Demetrius,  I'll  avouch  it  to  his  head, 
Made  love  to  Neda's  daughter,  Helena, 
And  won  her  soul ;  and  she,  sweet  lady,  dotes, 
Devoutly  dotes,  dotes  in  idolatry, 
Upon  this  spotted  and  inconstant  man. 

The.  I  must  confess,  that  I  have  heard  so  much, 
And  with  Demetrius  thought  to  have  spoke  thereof*        , 
But,  being  over-full  with  self-affairs, 
My  mind  did  lose  it. — But,  Demetrius,  come ; 
And  come,  Egeus  ;  you  shall  go  with  me, 
I  have  some  private  schooling  for  you  both. — 
For  you,  fair  Hermia,  look  you  arm  yourself 
To  fit  your  fancies  to  your  father's  will ; 
Or  else  the  law  of  Athens  yields  you  up 
(Which  by  no  means  we  may  extenuate,) 
To  death,  or  to  a  vow  of  single  life. — 
Come,  my  Hippolyta  ;  What  cheer,  my  love  ? 
Demetrius,  and  Egeus,  go  along  : 
I  must  employ  you  in  some  business 
Against  our  nuptial ;  and  confer  with  you 
Of  something  nearly  that  concerns  yourselves. 

Ege.  With  duty,  and  desire,  we  follow  you. 

[Exeunt  THES.  HIP.  EGE.  DEM.  and  train 

Lys.  How  now,  my  love  ?     Why  is  your  cheek  so  pale  ? 
How  chance  the  roses  there  do  fade  so  fast  ? 

Her.  Beiike  for  want  of  rain  ;  which  I  could  well 
Beteem  them  from  the  tempest  of  mine  eyes. 

Lys.  Ah  me  !  for  aught  that  ever  I  could  read, 
Could  ever  hear  by  tale  or  history, 
The  course  of  true  love  never  did  run  smooth : 
But  either  it  was  different  in  blood, 
Or  else  misgrafted,  in  respect  of  years : 
Or  else;  <t  stood  upon  the  choice  of  friends : 


MIDSUMMER-NIGHT  S    DREAM.  303 

Or,  if  there  were  a  sympathy  in  choice, 
War,  death,  or  sickness,  did  lay  siege  to  it ; 
Making  it  momentary  as  a  sound, 
Swift  as  a  shadow,  short  as  any  dream  ; 
Brief  as  the  lightning  in  the  collied*  night, 
That,  in  a  spleen,  unfolds  both  heaven  and  earth, 
And  ere  a  man  hath  power  to  say, — Behold  ! 
The  jaws  of  darkness  do  devour  it  up  : 
So  quick  bright  things  come  to  confusion. 

Her.  If  then  true  lovers  have  been  ever  cross'd, 
It  stands  as  an  edict  in 'destiny  : 
Then  let  us  teach  our  trial  patience, 
Because  it  is  a  customary  cross ; 
As  due  to  love,  as  thoughts  and  dreams,  and  sighs, 
Wishes,  and  tears,  poor  fancy's  followers. 

Lys.  A  good  persuasion ;  therefore,  hear  me,  Hermia 
I  have  a  widow  aunt,  a  dowager 
Of  great  revenue,  and  she  hath  no  child  ; 
From  Athens  is  her  house  remote  seven  leagues ; 
And  she  respects  me  as  her  only  son. 
There,  gentle  Hermia,  may  I  marry  thee ; 
And  to  that  place  the  sharp  Athenian  law 
Cannot  pursue  us  :  If  thou  lov'st  me  then, 
Steal  forth  tny  father's  house  to-morrow  night , 
And  in  the  wood,  a  league  without  the  town, 
Where  I  did  meet  thee  once  with  Helena, 
To  do  observance  to  a  morn  of  May, 
There  will  I  stay  for  thee. 

Her.  My  good  Lysander ! 

I  swear  to  thee  by  Cupid's  strongest  bow  ; 
By  his  bes/  arrow  with  the  golden  head ; 
By  the  simplicity  of  Venus'  doves ; 
By  that  which  knitteth  souls,  and  prospers  loves  ; 
By  all  the  vows  that  ever  men  have  broke, 
In  number  more  than  ever  woman  spoke  ; — 
In  that  same  place  thou  hast  appointed  me, 
To-morrow  truly  will  I  meet  with  thee. 

Isys.  Keep  promise,  love.:  Look,  here  comes  Helena 

Enter  HELENA. 

Her.  God  speed  fair  Helena  !     Whither  away  ? 

Hel.  Call  you  me  fair  ?  that  fair  again  unsay. 
Demetrius  loves  you  fair  :  O  happy  fair  ! 
Your  eyes  are  load-stars  ;  and  your  tong.ue's  sweet  air. 
More  tunable  than  lark  in  shepherd's  ear, 
When  wheat  is  green,  when  hawthorn  buds  appear. 
Sickness  is  catching ;  O,  were  favor  so  ! 

*  Black. 


804  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Yours  would  I  catch,  fair  Hermia,  ere  I  go ; 

My  ear  should  catch  your  voice,  my  eye  your  eye, 

My  tongue  should  catch  your  tongue's  sweet  melody. 

Were  the  world  mine,  Demetrius  being  bated, 

The  rest  I'll  give  to  be  to  you  translated. 

O,  teach  me  how  you  look  ;  and  with  what  art 

You  sway  the  motion  of  Demetrius'  heart. 

Her.  I  frown  upon  him,  yet  he  loves  me  still. 

Hcl.  O,  that  your  frowns  would  teach  my  smiles  such  skill ! 

Her.  I  give  him  curses,  yet  he  gives  me  love. 

Hel.  O,  that  my  prayers  could  such  affection  move  ! 

Her.  The  more  I  hate,  the  more  he  follows  me. 

Hel.  The  more  I  love,  the  more  he  hateth  me. 

Her.  His  folly,  Helena,  is  no  fault  of  mine. 

Hel.  None,  but  your  beauty ;  'Would  that  fault  were  mine  ! 

Her.  Take  comfort ;  he  no  more  shall  see  my  face ; 
Lysander  and  myself  will  fly  this  place. — 
Before  the  time  I  did  Lysander  see, 
Seem'd  Athens  like  a  paradise  to  me : 
O  then,  what  graces  in  my  love  do  dwell. 
That  he  hath  turn'd  a  heaven  unto  hell ! 

Lys.  Helen,  to  you  our  minds  we  will  unfold  : 
To-morrow  night  when  Phoebe  doth  behold 
Her  silver  visage  in  the  wat'ry  glass, 
Decking  with  liquid  pearl  the  bladed  grass, 
(A  time  that  lovers'  flights  doth  still  conceal,) 
Through  Athens'  gates  have  we  devis'd  to  steal. 

Her.  And  in  the  wood,  where  often  you  and  I 
Upon  faint  primrose  beds  were  wont  to  lie, 
Emptying  our  bosoms  of  their  counsel  sweet ; 
There  my  Lysander  and  myself  shall  meet : 
And  thence,  from  Athens,  turn  away  our  eyes, 
To  seek  new  friends  and  stranger  companies. 
Farewell,  sweet  playfellow ;  pray  thou  for  us, 
And  good  luck  grant  thee  thy  Demetrius  ! — 
Keep  word,  Lysander :  we  must  starve  our  sight 
From  lovers'  food,  till  morrow  deep  midnight.  [Exit  HEJRM, 

Lys.  I  will,  my  Hermia. — Helena,  adieu  : 
As  you  on  him.  Demetrius  dote  on  you  !  [Exit  Lra 

Hel.  How  happy  some,  o'er  other  some  can  be 
Through  Athens  I  am  thought  as  fair  as  she. 
But  what  of  that  ?     Demetrius  thinks  not  so ; 
He  will  not  know  what  all  but  he  do  know. 
And  as  he  errs,  doting  on  Hermia's  eyes, 
So  I,  admiring  of  his  qualities. 
Things  base  and  vile,  holding  no  quantity, 
Love  can  transpose  to  form  and  dignity. 
Love  looks  not  with  the  eyes,  but  with  the  mind ; 
And  therefore  is  wing'd  Cupid  painted  blind. 


MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM.  305 

Nor  hath  love's  mind  of  any  judgment  taste ; 

Wings,  and  no  eyes,  figure  unheedy  haste  : 

And  therefore  is  love  said  to  be  a  child, 

Because  in  choice  he  is  so  oft  beguil'd. 

As  waggish  boys  in  games  themselves  forswear, 

So  the  boy  Love  is  perjur'd  every  where  ;  ^ 

For 'ere  Demetrius  look'd  on  Hermia's  eyne,* 

He  hail'd  down  oaths  that  he  was  only  mine  ; 

And  when  this  hail  some  heat  from  Hermia  felt, 

So  he  dissolv'd,  and  showers  of  oaths  did  melt. 

I  will  go  tell  him  of  fair  Hermia's  flight : 

Then  to  the  wood  will  he,  to-morrow  night, 

Pursue  her;  and  for  this  intelligence 

If  I  have  thanks,  it  is  a  dear  expense  : 

But  herein  mean  I  to  enrich  my  pain, 

To  have  his  sight  thither,  and  back  again.  RxiL 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  L— A  Wood  near  Athens. 
•Enter  a  Fairy  at  one  door,  and  PUCK  at  another 

Puck.  How  now,  spirit !  whither  wander  you  ? 
Fai.  Over  hill,  over  dale, 

Thorough  bush,  thorough  brier, 

Over  park,  over  pale, 

Thorough  flood,  thorough  fire, 

I  do  wander  every  where, 

Swifter  than  the  moones  sphere  ; 

And  I  serve  the  fairy  queen, 

To  dew  her  orbs  upon  the  green  : 

The  cowslips  tall  her  pensioners  be  ; 

In  their  gold  coats  spots  you  see  ; 

Those  be  rubies,  fairy  favors, 

[n  those  freckles  live  their  savors  : 
I  must  go  seek  some  dew-drops  here, 
And  hang  a  pearl  in  every  cowslip's  ear. 
Farewell,  thou  lobf  of  spirits,  I'll  be  gone : 
Our  queen  and  all  her  elves  come  here  anon. 

Puck.  The  king  doth  keep  his  revels  here  to-night  9 
Take  heed,  the  queen  come  not  within  his  sight. 
For  Oberon  is  passing  fell  and  wrath, 
Because  that  she,  as  her  attendant,  hath 
A  lovely  boy  stol'n  from  an  Indian  king ; 
She  never  had  so  weet  a  changeling  : 
And  jealous  Oberon  would  have  the  child 
Knight  of  his  train,  to  trace  the  forests  wild  : 

*  Eyes.  f  A  term  of  contempt. 


806  SHAZSPEARIAN    READER. 

But  sh'.v  perforce,  withholds  the  loved  boy, 
Crowns  him  with  flowers,  and  makes  him  all  her  joy : 
And  now  they  never  meet  in  grove,  or  green, 
By  fountain  clear  or  spangled  star-light  sheen,* 
But  they  do  sauare  ;  that  all  their  elves,  for  fear. 
Creep  into  acorn  cups,  and  hide  them  there. 

Fai.  Either  1  mistake  your  shape  and  making  quite 
Or  else  you  are  that  shrewd  and  knavish  sprite, 
«•  Csill'd  Robin  Good-fellow  :  are  you  not  he, 
That  fright  the  maidens  of  the  villagery ; 
Skim  milk  ;  and  sometimes  labor  in  the  quern, 
And  bootless  make  the  breathless  housewife  churn ; 
And  sometime  make  the  drink  to  bear  no  barm  ; 
Mislead  night-wanderers,  laughing  at  their  harm  ? 
Those  that  Hobgoblin  call  you,  and  sweet  Puck, 
You  do  their  work,  and  they  shall  have  good  luck 
Are  not  you  he  ? 

Puck.  Thou  speak'st  aright ; 

I  am  that  merry  wanderer  of  the  night. 
I  jest  to  Oberon,  and  make  him  smile, 
When  I  a  fat  and  bean-fed  horse  beguile, 
Neighing  in  likeness  of  a  silly  foal : 
And  sometime  lurk  I  in  a  gossip's  bowl, 
In  very  likeness  of  a  roasted  crab  ;f 
And,  when  she  drinks,  against  her  lips  I  bob, 
And  on  her  wither'd  dew-lap  pour  the  ale. 
The  wisest  aunt,  telling  the  saddest  tale, 
Sometime  for  three-foot  stool  mistaketh  me ; 
Then  slip  I  under  her,  down  topples  she, 
And  tailor  cries,  and  falls  into  a  cough  ; 
And  then  the  whole  quire  hold  their  hips,  and  loffe ; 
And  waxen  in  their  mirth,  and  neeze  and  swear 
A  merrier  hour  was  never  wasted  there. — 
But  room,  Fairy,  here  comes  Oberon. 

Fai.  And  here  my  mistress  : — Would  that  he  were  gone ! 

En'sr  OBERON,  at  one  door  with  Us  train,  and  TITANIA,  at  anotlier 

with  hers. 

Obe.  Ill  met  by  moon-light,  proud  Titania. 
Tita.  What,  jealous  Oberon  ?     Fairy,  skip  hence. 
Obe.  Tarry,  rash  wanton. 
Tita.  These  are  the  forgeries  of  jealousy : 
And  never,  since  the  middle  summer's  spring, 
Met  we  on  hill,  in  dale,  forest,  or  mead, 
By  paved  fountain,  or  by  rushy  brook, 
Or  on  the  beached  margent  of  the  sea, 
To  dance  our  ringlets  to  the  whistling  wind, 
But  with  thy  brawls  thou  hast  disturbed  our  sport. 

Shin  ng.  f  Wild  appfos. 


MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM.  807 

Therefore  the  winds,  piping  to  us  in  vain, 

As  in  revenge,  have  suck'd  up  from  the  sea 

Contagious  fogs  ;  which  falling  in  the  land, 

Have  every  pelting  river  made  so  proud, 

That  they  have  overborne  their  continents  : 

The  ox  hath  therefore  stretch'd  his  yoke  in  vain, 

The  ploughman  lost  his  sweat ;  and  the  green  corn 

Hath  rotted,  ere  his  youth  attain'd  a  beard  : 

The  fold  stands  empty  in  the  drowned  field, 

And  crows  are  fatted  with  the  murrain  flock  ; 

The  nine  men's  morris*  is  fill'd  up  with  mud ; 

And  the  quaint  mazes  in  the  wanton  green, 

For  lack  of  tread,  are  undistinguishable ; 

The  human  mortals  want  their  winter  here ; 

No  night  is  now  with  hymn  or  carol  blest : — 

Therefore  the  moon,  the  governess  of  floods, 

Pale  in  her  anger,  washes  all  the  air, 

That  rheumatic  diseases  do  abound  : 

And  thorough  this  distemperature,  we  see 

The  seasons  alter :  hoary-headed  frosts 

Fall  in  the  fresh  lap  of  the  crimson  rose ; 

And  on  old  Hyems'  chin,  and  icy  crown, 

An  odorous  chaplet  of  sweet  summer  buds 

Is,  as  in  mockery,  set :  The  spring,  the  summer, 

The  childing  autumn,  angry  winter,  change 

Their  wonted  liveries ;  and  the  mazed  world, 

By  their  increase,  now  knows  not  which  is  which : 

And  this  same  progeny  of  evils  comes 

From  our  debate,  from  our  dissension  ;     • 

We  are  their  parents  and  original. 

Obe.  Do  you  amend  it  then  :  it  lies  in  you  : 
Why  should  Titania  cross  her  Oberon  ? 
I  do  but  beg  a  little  changeling  boy, 
To  be  my  henchman. 

Tita.  Set  your  heart  at  rest, 

The  fairy  land  buys  not  the  child  of  me. 
His  mother  was  a  vot'ress  of  my  order  : 
And,  in  the  spiced  Indian  air,  by  night, 
Full  often  hath  she  gossip'd  by  my  side  ; 
And  sat  with  me  on  Neptune's  yellow  sands, 
Marking  the  embarked  traders  on  the  flood ; 
But  she,  being  mortal,  of  that  boy  did  die, 
And,  for  her  sake,  I  do  rear  up  her  boy  : 
And,  for  her  sake,  I  will  not  part  with  him. 

Obe.  How  long  within  this  wood  intend  you  stay  ? 

Tita.  Perchance,  till  after  Theseus'  wedding-day. 
If  you  will  patiently  dance  in  our  round, 

*  Holes  made  for  a  game  played  by  beys. 


308  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

And  see  our  moon-light  revels,  go  with  us ; 
If  not,  shun  me,  and  I  will  spare  your  haunts. 

Obe.  Give  me  that  boy,  and  I  will  go  with  thee. 

Tita.  Not  for  thy  fairy  kingdom.     Fairies,  away  : 
We  shall  chide  down-right  if  1  longer  stay. 

[Exeunt  TITANIA,  and  her  train 

Obe.  Well,  go  thy  way :  thou  shalt  not  from  this  grove, 
Till  I  torment  thee  for  this  injury. — 
My  gentle  Puck,  come  hither :  Thou  remember'st 
Since  once  I  sat  upon  a  promontory, 
And  heard  a  mermaid,  on  a  dolphin's  back, 
Uttering  such  dulcet  and  harmonious  breath, 
That  the  rude  sea  grew  civil  at  her  song ; 
And  certain  stars  shot  madly  from  their  spheres 
To  hear  the  sea-maid's  music. 

Fuck.  I  remember. 

Obe.  That  very  time  I  saw,  (but  thou  could'st  not,) 
Flying  between  the  cold  moon  and  the  earth, 
Cupid  all  arm'd  :  a  certain  aim  he  took 
At  a  fair  vestal,  throned  by  the  west ; 
And  loos'd  his  love-shaft  smartly  from  his  bow, 
As  it  should  pierce  a  hundred  thousand  hearts : 
But  I  might  see  young  Cupid's  fiery  shaft 
Quench'd  in  the  chaste  beams  of  the  wat'ry  moon ; 
And  the  imperial  vot'ress  passed  on, 
In  maiden  meditation,  fancy-free. 
Yet  mark'd  I  where  the  bolt  of  Cupid  fell : 
It  fell  upon  a  little  western  flower, — 
Before,  milk-white ;  now  purple  with  love's  wound,— 
And  maidens  call  it  love-in-idleness. 
Fetch  me  that  flower ;  the  herb  I  show'd  thee  once  ; 
The  juice  of  it  on  sleeping  eyelids  laid, 
Will  make  or  man  or  woman  sadly  dote 
Upon  the  next  live  creature  that  it  sees. 
Fetch  me  this  herb :  and  be  thou  here  again, 
Ere  the  leviathan  can  swim  a  league. 

Puck.  I'll  put  a  girdle  round  about  the  earth 
In  forty  minutes.  JExit. 

Obe.  Having  once  this  juice, 

I'll  watch  Titania  when  she  is  asleep, 
And  drop  the  liquor  of  it  in  her  eyes  : 
The  next  thing  then  she  waking  looks  upon, 
(Be  it  on  lion,  bear,  or  wolf,  or  bull, 
On  meddling  monkey,  or  on  busy  ape,) 
She  shall  pursue  it  with  the  soul  of  love, 
And  ere  I  take  this  charm  off  from  her  sight, 
(As  I  can  take  it,  with  another  herb,) 
I'll  make  her  render  up  her  page  to  me. 


309 

But  who  comes  here  ?    I  am  invisible ; 
And  I  will  overhear  their  conference. 

Demetrius  is  pursued  by  Helena,  who  persists  in  proffers  of  her  love,  which  r,«metrisi 
itiil  rejects      Oberon  listens  lo  their  conversation. 

Fare  thee  well,  nymph  ;  ere  he  do  leave  this  grove, 
Thou  shall  fly  him,  and  he  shall  seek  thy  love. — 

Re-enter  FUCK. 
Hast  thou  the  flower  there  ?     Welcome,  wanderer. 

Puck.  Ay,  there  it  is.  , 

Obe.  I  pray  thee,  give  it  me. 

I  know  a  bank  whereon  the  wild  thyme  blowsj 
Where  ox-lips  and  the  nodding  violet  grows ; 
Quite  over-canopied  with  lush  woodbine, 
With  sweet  musk-roses,  and  with  eglantine  ; 
There  sleeps  Titania,  some  time  of  the  night, 
Lull'd  in  these  flowers  with  dances  and  delight ; 
And  there  the  snake  throws  her  enamell'd  skin, 
Weed  wide  enough  to  wrap  a  fairy  in ; 
And  with  the  juice  of  this  I'll  streak  her  eyes, 
And  make  her  full  of  hateful  fantasies. 
Take  thou  some  of  it,  and  seek  through  this  grove : 
A  sweet  Athenian  lady  is  in  love 
With  a  disdainful  youth  :  anoint  his  eyes  : 
But  do  it,  when  the  next  thing  he  espies 
May  be  the  lady  :  Thou  shalt  know  the  man 
By  the  Athenian  garments  he  hath  on. 
Effect  it  with  some  care ;  that  he  may  prove 
More  fond  on  her,  than  she  upon  her  love. 

Puck  mistakes  Lysander  for  the  lover,  on  whom  he  is  commissioned  by  Oberon  to  BXW 
oise  his  fairy  spells. 

SCENE.— Another  part  of  the  Wood. 
Enter  LYSANDER,  and  HERMIA. 

Lys.  Fair  love,  you  faint  with  wandering  in  the  wood ; 

And  to  speak  troth,  I  have  forgot  our  way ; 
We'll  rest  us,  Hermia,  if  you  think  it  good, 

And  tarry  for  the  comfort  of  the  day. 

Her.  Be  it  so,  Lysander,  find  you  out  a  bed, 
For  I  upon  this  bank  will  rest  my  head. 
Such  separation,  as,  may  well  be  said, 
Becomes  a  virtuous  bachelor  and  a  maid : 
So  far  be  distant ;  and  good  night,  sweet  friend  : 
Thy  love  ne'er  alter,  till  thy  sweet  life  end  ! 

Lys.  Amen,  Amen,  to  that  fair  prayer,  say  I ; 
And  then  end  life,  when  I  end  loyalty  ! 
Here  is  my  bed  :  Sleep  give  thee  all  his  rest ! 

Her.  With    -alf  that  wish  the  wisher's  eyes  be  press'd. 

[Tliey  sleep 


310  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 


Enter  PUCK. 

Puck.  Through  the  forest  have  I  gone, 
But  Athenian  found  I  none, 
On  whose  eyes  I  might  approve 
This  flower's  force  in  stirring  love. 
Night  and  silence  !  who  is  here  ? 
Weeds  of  Athens  he  doth  wear  ; 
This  is  he,  my  master  said, 
Despised  the  Athenian  maid ; 
And  here  the  maiden,  sleeping  sound, 
On  the  dank  and  dirty  ground. 
Pretty  soul !  she  durst  not  lie 
Near  this  lack-love,  kill-courtesy. 
Churl,  upon  thy  eyes  I  throw 
All  the  power  this  charm  doth  owe : 
When  thou  wak'st,  let  love  forbid 
Sleep  his  seat  on  thy  eye-lid. 
So  awake,  when  I  am  gone ; 
For  I  must  now  to  Oberon. 

Enter  DEMETRIUS,  and  HELENA,  running. 

Hel.  Stay,  though  thou  kill  me,  sweet  Demetrius. 

Dem.  I  charge  thee,  hence,  and  do  not  haunt  me  thus. 

Hel.  O,  wilt  thou  darkling  leave  me  ?  do  not  so. 

Dem.  Stay,  on  thy  peril ;  I  alone  will  go.          [Exit  DEMETRIUS. 

Hel.  O,  I  am  out  of  breath  in  this  fond  chase ! 
The  more  my  prayer,  the  lesser  is  my  grace. 
Happy  is  Hermia,  wheresoe'er  she  lies  ; 
For  she  hath  blessed  and  attractive  eyes. 
How  came  her  eyes  so  bright  ?  Not  with  salt  tears ; 
If  so,  my  eyes  are  oftener  wash'd  than  hers 
No,  no,  I  am  as  ugly  as  a  bear ; 
For  beasts  that  meet  me,  run  away  for  fear 
The-efore,  no  marvel,  though  Demetrius 
Do,  as  a  monster,  fly  my  presence  thus. 
What  wicked  and  dissembling  glass  of  mine 
Made  me  compare  with  Hermia's  sphery  eyne  ?— 
But  who  is  here  ? — Lysander !  on  the  ground  ! 
Dead  ?  or  asleep  ?     I  see  no  blood,  no  wound !— • 
Lysander,  if  you  live,  good  sir,  awake. 

Lys.  And  run  through  fire  I  will,  for  thy  sweet  sake.     [ Wdk'mg. 
Transparent  Helena !     Nature  here  shows  art, 
That  through  thy  bosom  makes  me  see  thy  heart. 
Where  is  Demetrius  ?     O,  how  fit  a  word 
Is  that  vile  name,  to  perish  on  my  sword  ? 

Hel.  Do  not  say  so,  Lysander  ;  say  not  so  : 
What  though  he  love  your  Hermia  ?  O,  what  though  ? 
Vet  Hermia  still  loves  you  :  then  be  content. 


331 

Lys.  Content  with  Hermia  ?  No  :  I  do  repent 
The  tedious  minutes  I  with  her  have  spent. 
Not  Hermia,  but  Helena  I  love : 
Who  will  not  change  a  raven  for  a  dove  ? 
The  will  of  man  is  by  his  reason  sway'd : 
And  reason  says  you  are  the  worthier  maid. 
Things  growing  are  not  ripe  until  their  season  ; 
So  1,  being  young,  till  now  ripe  not  to  reason ; 
And  touching  now  t*e  point  of  human  skill, 
Reason  becomes  the  marshal  to  my  will, 
And  leads  me  to  your  eyes  ;  where  T  o'erlook 
Love's  stories,  written  in  love's  richest  book. 

Hel.  Wherefore  was  I  to  this  keen  mockery  born  ? 
When,  at  your  hands,  did  I  deserve  this  scorn  ? 
Is't  not  enough,  is't  not  enough,  young  man, 
That  I  did  never,  no,  nor  never  can, 
Deserve  a  sweet  look  -from  Demetrius'  eye, 
But  you  must  flout  my  insufficiency  ? 
Good  troth,  you  do  me  wrong,  good  sooth,  you  do. 
In  such  disdainful  manner  me  to  woo. 
But  fare  you  well :  perforce  I  must  confess, 
I  thought  you  lord  of  more  true  gentleness. 
O,  that  a  lady,  of  one  man  refus'd, 
Should,  of  another,  therefore  be  abus'd  ! 

Lys.  She  sees  not  Hermia  :— Hermia,  sleep  thou  there ; 
And  never  may'st  thou  come  Lysander  near  ! 
For,  as  a  surfeit  of  the  sweetest  things 
The  deepest  loathing  to  the  stomach  brings  ; 
Or,  as  the  heresies  that  men  do  leave, 
Are  hated  most  of  those  they  did  deceive ; 
So  thou,  my  surfeit,  and  my  heresy, 
Of  all  be  hated ;  but  the  most  of  me  ! 
And  all  my  powers,  address  your  love  and  might, 
To  honor  Helen,  and  to  be  her  knight !  rFxit» 

Her.  [Starting.]  Help  me,  Lysander,  help  me  !  do  t'ly  bes£ 
To  pluck  this  crawling  serpent  from  my  breast ! 
Ah  me,  for  pity. ! — what  a  dream  was  here  ? 
Lysander,  look,  how  I  do  quake  with  fear ! 
Methought  a  serpent  eat  my  heart  away, 
And  you  sat  smiling  at  his  cruel  prey  : — 
Lysander  !  what,  remov'd  ?  Lysander !  lord  ! 
What,  out  of  hearing  ?  gone  ?  no  sound,,  no  word  ? 
Alack,  where  are  you  ?  spealf,  an  if  you  hear ; 
Speak,  of  all  loves  ;  I  swoon  almost  with  fear. 
No  ? — then  I  well  perceive  you  are  not  nigh  : 
Either  death,  or  y  )u,  I'll  find  immediately..  [Exh 


312  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 


ACT   III. 

Oberon  discovers  that  Puck  has  mistaken  Lysander  for  Demetrius,  and  by  his  magw 
charms  corrects  the  error. 

SCENE.— A  Wood. 
DEMETRIUS  [Sleeping],  LYSANDER,  and  HELENA. 

Lys.  Why  should  you  think,  that  I  should  woo  in  scorn  ? 

Scorn  and  derision  never  come  in  tears. 
Look,  when  1  vow,  I  weep ;  and  vows  so  born, 

In  their  nativity  all  truth  appears. 
How  can  these  things  in  me  seem  scorn  to  you, 
Bearing  the  badge  of  faith,  to  prove  them  true  ? 

Hel.  You  do  advance  your  cunning  more  and  more. 

When  truth  kills  truth,  O,  matchless  holy  fray ! 
These  vows  are  Hermia's ;  Will  you  give  her  o'er  ? 

Weigh  oath  with  oath,  and  you  will  nothing  weigh : 
Your  vows,  to  her  and  me,  put  in  two  scales, 
Will  even  weigh;  and  both  as  light  as  tales. 

Lys.  I  had  no  judgment,  when  to  her  I  swore. 

Hel.  Nor  none,  in  my  mind,  now  you  give  her  o'er. 

Lys.  Demetrius  loves  her,  and  he  loves  not  you. 

Dem.  [Awaking.]     O  Helen,  goddess,  nymph,  perfect,  divine  I 
To  what,  my  love,  shall  I  compare  thine  eyne  ? 
Crystal  is  muddy.     O,  how  ripe  in  show 
Thy  lips,  those  kissing  cherries,  tempting  grow ! 
That  pure  congealed  white,  high  Taurus'  snow, 
Fann'd  with  the  eastern  wind,  turns  to  a  crow, 
When  thou  hold'st  up  thy  hand  :  O  let  me  kiss 
This  princess  of  pure  white,  this  seal  of  bliss ! 

Hel.  O  cruel  spite  !     I  see  you  all  are  bent 
To  set  against  me  for  your  merriment. 
If  you  were  civil,  and  knew  courtesy, 
You  would  not  do  me  thus  much  injury. 
Can  you  not  hate  me,  as  I  know  you  do, 
But  you  must  join,  in  souls,  to  mock  me  too  ? 
If  you  were  men,  as  men  you  are  in  show, 
You  would  not  use  a  gentle  lady  so ; 
To  vow,  and  swear,  and  superpraise  my  parts, 
When,  I  am  sure,  you  hate  me  with  your  hearts. 
You  both  are  rivals,  and  love  Hermia ; 
And  now  both  rivals,  to  mock  Helena ; 
A  trim  exploit,  a  manly  enterprise, 
To  conjure  tears  up  in  a  poor  maid's  eyes, 
With  your  derision  !  none,  of  noble  sort, 
Would  so  offend  a  virgin  ;  and  extort 
A.  poor  soul's  patience,  all  to  make  you  sport. 

J/ys.  You  are  unkind,  Demetrius  ;  be  not  so  ; 


MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM.  313 

For  you  love  Hermia  :  this,  you  know,  I  know : 
And  here,  with  all  good  will,  with  all  my  heart, 
In  Hermia's  love  I  yield  you  up  my  part ; 
And  yours  of  Helena  to  me  bequeath, 
Whom  I  do  love,  and  will  do  till  my  death. 

Hel.  Never  did  mockers  waste  more  idle  breath, 

Dem.  Lysander,  keep  thy  Hermia  ;  I  will  none : 
If  e'er  I  lov'd  her,  all  that  love  is  gone. 
My  heart  with  her  but,  as  guest-wise,  sojourn'd ; 
And  now  to  Helen  is  it  home  return'd, 
There  to  remain. 

Lys.  Helen,  it  is  not  so. 

Dem.  Disparage  not  the  faith  thou  dost  not  know, 
Lest,  to  thy  peril,  thou  aby*  it  dear. — 
Look,  where  thy  love  comes  ;  yonder  is  thy  dear. 

Enter  HERMIA. 

Her.  Dark  night,  that  from  the  eye  his  function  takes, 
The  ear  more  quick  of  apprehension  makes  : 
Wherein  it  doth  impair  the  seeing  sense, 
It  pays  the  hearing  double  recompense  : — 
Thou  art  not  by  mine  eye,  Lysander,  found ; 
Mine  ear,  I  think,  it  brought  me  to  thy  sound. 
But  why  unkindly  didst  thou  leave  me  so  ? 

Lys.  Why  should  he  stay,  whom  love  doth  pres^  to  go? 

Her.  What  love  could  press  Lysander  from  my  side  ? 

Lys.  Lysander's  love,  that  would  not  let  him  bide, 
Fair  Helena  ;  who  more  engilds  the  night 
Than  all  yon  fiery  oesf  and  eyes  of  light. 
Why  seek'st  thou  me  ?  could  not  this  make  thee  know, 
The  hate  I  bear  thee  made  me  leave  thee  so  ? 

Her.  You  speak  not  as  you  think ;  it  cannot  be. 

Hel.  Lo,  she  is  one  of  this  confederacy ! 
Now  I  perceive  they  have  conjoin'd,  all  three, 
To  fashion  this  false  sport  in  spite  of  me.' 
Injurious  Hermia  !  most  ungrateful  maid  ! 
Have  you  conspir'd,  have  you  with  these  oontriv'd 
To  bait  me  with  this  foul  derision,  ? 
Is  all  the  counsel  that  we  two  have  shar'd, 
The  sisters'  vows,  the  hours  that  we  have  spent, 
When  we  have  chid  the  hasty-footed  time 
For  parting  us, — O,  and  is  all  forgot  ? 
All  schooldays'  friendship,  childhood  innocence? 
We,  Hermia,  like  two  artificial  gods, 
Have  with  our  neeldsj  created  both  one  flower, 
Both  on  one  sampler,  sitting  on  one  cushion, 
Both  warbling  of  one  song;,  both  in  one  key ; 
A.S  if  our  hands,  our  sides,  voices,  and  minds, 

*  Pay  dearly  for  it.  t  Circles.  {  Nt«dl», 

1  r; 


SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Had  been  incorporate.     So  we  grew  together. 
Like  to  a  double  cherry,  seeming  parted  ; 
But  yet  a  union  in  partition, 
Two  lovely,  berries  moulded  on  one  stem : 
So,  with  two  seeming  bodies,  but  one  heart ; 
Two  of  the  first,  like  coats  in  heraldry, 
Due  but  to  one,  and  crowned  with  one  crest. 
And  will  you  rend  our  ancient  love  asunder, 
To  join  with  men  in  scorning  your  poor  friend  ? 
It  is  not  friendly,  'tis  not  maidenly  : 
Our  sex,  as  well  as  I,  may  chide  you  for  it ; 
Though  I  alone  do  feel  the  injury. 

ACT  IV. 

Oberon  directs  Puck  to  cast  the  lovers  into  a  "  death  coanterfelting  sleep,"  and  tlie» 
to  disenchant  Lysander,  so  that  when  they  wake,  all  the  mistakes  shall  seem  a  dream. 

SCENE. — A   Wood.    LYSANDER,  DEMETRIUS,  HERMIA,  and  HE* 
LENA,  discovered  sleeping. 

Enter  THESEUS,  HIPPOLYTA,  EGEUS,  and  train. 

The.  Go,  one  of  you,  find  out  the  forester ; — 
For  now  our  observation  is  perform'd  ; 
And  since  we  have  the  vaward  of  the  day, 
My  love  shall  hear  the  music  of  my  hounds. — 
Uncouple  in  the  western  valley  ;  go : — 
Despatch,  I  say,  and  find  the  forester. — 
We  will,  fair  queen,  up  to  the  mountain's  top, 
And  mark  the  musical  confusion 
Of  hounds  and  echo  in  conjunction. 

Hip.  I  was  with  Hercules,  and  Cadmus,  once, 
When  in  a  wood  of  Crete  they  bay'd  the  bear 
With  hounds  of  Sparta :  never  did  I  hear 
Such  gallant  chiding ;  for,  besides  the  groves, 
The  skies,  the  fountains,  every  region  near 
Seem'd  all  one  mutual  cry  :  I  never  heard 
So  musical  a  discord,  such  sweet  thunder. 

The.  My  hounds  are  bred  out  of  the  Spartan  kind, 
So  flew'd,  so  sanded  ;  and  their  heads  are  hung 
With  ears  that  sweep  away  the  morning  dew ; 
Crook-knee'd  and  dew-lap'd  like  Thessalian  bulls ; 
Slow  in  pursuit,  but  match'd  in  mouth-like  bells, 
Each  under  each.    A  cry  more  tunable 
Was  never  holla'd  to,  nor  cheer'd  with  horn, 
In  Crete,  in  Sparta,  nor  in  Thessaly  : 
Judge,  when  you  hear. But  soft ;  what  nymphs  are  these  ? 

Ege.  My  lord,  this  is  my  daughter  here  asleep  ; 
And  this,  Lysander ;  this  Demetrius  is ; 


315 

This  Helena,  old  Neda's  Helena  : 
I  wonder  of  their  being  here  together. 

The.  No  doubt,  they  rose  up  early,  to  observe 
The  rite  of  May ;  and,  hearing  our  intent, 
Come  here  in  grace  of  our  solemnity. — 
But,  speak,  Egeus ;  is  not  this  the  day 
That  Hermia  should  give  answer  of  her  choice  ? 

Ege.  It  is,  my  lord. 

The.  Go,  bid  the  huntsmen  wake  them  with  their  horns. 

Horns  and  shout  within.    DEMETRIUS,  LYSANDER,  HERMIA,  and 
HELENA,  wake  and  start  up. 

The.  Good-morrow,  friends.     Saint  Valentine  is  past ; 
Begin  these  wood-birds  but  to  couple  now  ? 

Lys.  Pardon,  my  lord.  [He  and  the  rest  kneel  to  THESEVS. 

The.  I  pray  you  all  stand  up. 

I  know,  you  are  two  rival  enemies'; 
How  comes  this  gentle  concord  in  the  world, 
That  hatred  is  so  far  from  jealousy, 
To  sleep  by  hate,  and  fear  no  enmity  ? 

Lys.  My  lord,  I  shall  reply  amazedly, 
Half  'sleep,  half  waking :  But  as  yet,  I  swear, 
I  cannot  truly  say  how  I  came  here  : 
But,  as  I  think,  (for  truly  would  I  speak, — 
And  now  I  do  bethink  me,  so  it  is  ;) 
I  came  with  Herrnia  hither  :  our  intent 
Was,  to  be  gone  from  Athens,  where  we  might  be 
Without  the  peril  of  the  Athenian  law. 

Ege.  Enough,  enough,  my  lord ;  you  have  enough. 
I  beg  the  law,  the  law  upon  his  head. — 
They  would  have  stol'n  away,  they  would,  Demetrius, 
Thereby  to  have  defeated  you  and  me  : 
You,  of  your  wife ;  and  me,  of  my  consent ; 
Of  my  consent  that  she  should  be  your  wife. 

Dem.  My  lord,  fair  Helen  told  me  of  their  stealtli, 
Of  this  their  purpose  hither,  to  this  wood ; 
And  I  in  fury  hither  follow'd  them ; 
Fair  Helena  in  fancy  following  me. 
But,  my  good  lord,  I  wot  not  by  what  power, 
(But,  by  some  power  it  is,)  my  love  to  Hermia, 
Melted  as  doth  the  snow,  seems  to  me  now 
As  the  remembrance  of  an  idle  gawd, 
Which  in  my  childhood  I  did  dote  upon : 
And  all  the  faith,  the  virtue  of  my  heart, 
The  object,  and  the  pleasure  of  mine  eye, 
Is  only  Helena.     To  her,  my  lord, 
Was  I  betroth'd  ere  I  saw  Hermia ; 
But,  like  in  sickness,  did  I  loathe  this  food  : 
But,  as  in  health,  come  to  my  natural  taste, 


316  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Now  do  I  wish  it,  love  it,  long  for  it, 
And  will  for  evermore  be  true  to  it. 

The.  Fair  flowers,  you  are  fortunately  met : 
Of  this  discourse  we  more  will  hear  anon. — 
Egeus,  I  will  overbear  your  will ; 
For  in  the  temple,  by  and  by  with  us, 
These  couples  shall  eternally  be  knit. 
And,  for  the  morning  now  is  something  worn, 
Our  purpos'd  hunting  shall  be  set  aside. — 
Away,  with  us,  to  Athens :  Three  and  three, 
We'll  hold  a  feast  in  great  solemnity. 
Come,  Hippolyta. 

[Exeunt  THESEUS,  HIPPOLYTA,  EGEUS,  and  tram 

Dem.  These  things  seem  small  and  undistinguishable, 
Like  far-off  mountains  turned  into  clouds. 

Her.  Methinks  I  see  these  things  with  parted  eye. 
When  every  thing  seems  double. 

Hel.  So,  methinks : 

And  I  have  found  Demetrius  like  a  jewel, 
Mine  own,  and  not  mine  own. 

Dem.  It  seems  to  me, 

That  yet  we  sleep,  we  dream. — Do  not  you  think, 
The  duke  was  here,  and  bid  us  follow  him  ? 

Her.  Yea  ;  and  my  father. 

Hel.  And  Hippolyta. 

Lys.  And  he  did  bid  us  follow  to  the  temple. 

Dem.  Why  then,  we  are  awake :  let's  follow  him  ; 
And,  by  the  way,  let  us  recount  our  dreams.  [Exeunt* 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  I.— The  same.     An  Apartment  in  the  Palace  of  Theseus., 
Enter  THESEUS,  HIPPOLYTA,  PHILOSTRATE,  Lords,  and  Attendants, 

Hip.  'Tis  strange,  my  Theseus,  that  these  lovers  speak  of. 

The.  More  strange  than  true.  I  never  may  believe 
These  antique  fables,  nor  these  fairy  toys. 
Lovers  and  madmen  have  such  seething  brains, 
Such  shaping  fantasies,  that  apprehend 
More  than  cool  reason  ever  comprehends , 
The  lunatic,  the  lover,  and  the  poet, 
Are  of  imagination  all  compact : 
One  sees  more  devils  than  vast  hell  can  hold ; 
That  is,  the  madman  :  the  lover,  all  as  frantic, 
Sees  Helen's  beauty  in  a  brow  of  Egypt : 
The  poet's  eye,  in  a  fine  frenzy  rolling, 
Doth  glance  from  heaven  to  earth,  from  earth  to  heaven, 
And,  as  imagination  bodies  forth 


MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM.  317 

The  forms  of  things  unknown,  the  poet's  pen 
Turns  them  to  shapes,  and  gives  to  airy  nothing 
A  local  habitation,  and  a  name. 
Such  tricks  hath  strong  imagination  ; 
That,  if  it  would  but  apprehend  some  joy, 
It  comprehends  some  bringer  of  that  joy ; 
Or,  in  the  night,  imagining  some  fear, 
HQW  easy  is  a  bush  suppos'd  a  bear  ? 

Hip.  But  all  the  story  of  the  night  told  over, 
And  all  their  minds  transfigured  so  together, 
More  witnesseth  than  fancy's  images, 
And  grows  to  something  of  great  constancy ; 
But,  howsoever,  strange,  and  admirable. 

Enter  LYSANDER,  DEMETRIUS,  HERMIA,  and  HSLEKA. 

The.  Here  come  the  lovers,  full  of  joy  and  mirth. — 
Joy,  gentle  friends  !  joy,  and  fresh  days  of  love, 
Accompany  your  hearts. 

The  Play  eudz  with  a  masque  by  the  comic  personages  of  ths  Dronia. 


JULIUS  C^SAK. 


In  ttis  noble  composition.  Shakspeare  has  shown  himself  equally  great,  in  dramatizing 
8  celebrated  portion  of  Classic  History,  as  he  is  in  adapting  incidents  gathered  from  ro- 
mantic story,  or  the  wonders  of  legendary  fiction. 

In  Julius  Caesar,  he  has  been  chiefly  indebted  to  Plutarch  for  his  material*,  and  it  is  no 
mean  praisa  awarded  to  him  by  his  commentators,  that  he  has  caught  the  spirit  of  his 
great  original. 

The  principal  characters  are  veritable  Plutarchian  embodiments.  Caesar,  Brntus,  Cas- 
»ius.  and  Antony,  are  clothed  with  even  more  individuality  of  character,  than  they  are 
depicted  by  the  celebrated  Greek  Biographer. 

"  The  real  length  of  time  in  Julius  Caesar  is  as  follows  :  About  the  middle  of  February, 
B.  C.  709,  a  frantic  festival,  sacred  to  Pan,  and  called  Lupercalia,  was  held  in  honor 
of  Caesar,  when  the  regal  crown  was  offered  to  him  by  Antony.  On  the  15th  of  March  in 
the  same  year,  he  was  slain.  November  27,  B.  C.  710,  the  triumvirs  met  at  a  small 
island,  formed  by  the  river  Rhenus,  near  Bonoma,  and  there  adjusted  their  cruel  proscrip- 
tion.— B.  C.  711,  Brutus  and  Cassius  were  defeated  near  Philippi." 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED: 

JULIUS  CJESAR. 

OCTAVIUS  CJESAR,     } 

MARCUS  ANTONIUS,  >  triumvirs  after  the  death  of  Julius  Caesar. 

M.  jEmiL.  LEPIDUS,  S 

CICERO,  PUBLIUS,  POPILIUS  LENA  ;  senators. 

MARCUS  BRUTUS,  CASCA, 


X 

. 

" 


METELLUS  CIMBER,  CINNA, 

FLAVIUS  and  MARULLUS,  tribunes. 

ARTEMIDORUS,  a  sophist  of  Cnidos. 

A  Soothsayer.     CINNA,  a  poet.     Another  Poet. 

LUCILIUS,  TITINIUS,   MESSALA,   young  CATO,   and    VOLUMNIUS  ; 

friends  to  Brutus  and  Cassius. 
VARRO,  CLITUS,  CLAUDIUS,  STRATO,  Lucius,  DARDANIUS  ;  servants 

to  Brutus, 

PINDARUS,  servant  to  Cassius. 
CALPHURNIA,  wife  to  Caesar. 
PORTIA,  wife  to  Brutus. 

Senators,  Citizens,  Guards,  Attendants,  #c. 

SCENE, — during  a  great  part  of  the  Play,  at  ROME  ;  afterwards  at 
SARDIS  ;  and  near  PIIILIPPI. 


JULIUS   CJ3SAR.  319 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I.— Rome.    A  Street. 
Enter  FLAVIUS,  MARULLUS,  and  a  rabble  of  Citizens. 

.Flav.  Hence  ;  home*  you  idle  creatures,  get  you  home  ; 
Is  this  a  holiday  ?  What !  know  you  not, 
Being  mechanical,  you  ought  not  walk, 
Upon  a  laboring  day,  without  the  sign 
Of  your  profession  ?— Speak,  what  trade  art  thou  ? 

1st  Cit.  Why,  sir,  a  carpenter. 

Mar.  Where  is  thy  leather  apron,  and  thy  rule  ? 
What  dost  thou  with  thy  best  apparel  on  ? — 
You,  sir ;  what  trade  are  you  ? 

2nd  Cit.  Truly,  sir,  in  respect  of  a  fine  workman,  I  am  but,  as  you 
would  say,  a  cobbler. 

Mar.  But  what  trade  art  thou  ?  Answer  me  directly. 

2nd  Cit.  A  trade,  sir,  that,  I  hope,  I  may  use  with  a  safe  con- 
science ;  which  is,  indeed,  sir,  a  mender  of  bad  soles. 

Mar.  What  trade,  thou  knave,  thou  naughty  knave,  what  trade  ? 

2nd  Cit.  Nay,  I  beseech  you,  sir,  be  not  out  with  me  :  yet,  if  you 
be  out,  sir,  I  can  mend  you. 

Mar.  What  meanest  thou  by  that  ?  Mend  me,  thou  saucy  fellow  ? 

2nd  Cit.  Why,  sir,  cobble  you. 

Flav.  Thou  art  a  cobbler,  art  thou  ? 

2nd  Cit.  Truly,  sir,  all  that  I  live  by  is,  with  the  awl :  I  meddle 
with  no  tradesman's  matters.  I  am,  indeed,  sir,  a  surgeon  to  old 
shoes ;  when  they  are  in  great  danger,  I  recover  them.  As  proper 
men  as  ever  trod  up  n  neats-leather,  have  gone  upon  my  handy-work. 

Flav.  But  wherefore  art  not  in  thy  shop  to-day  ? 
Why  dost  thou  lead  these  men  about  the  streets  ? 

2nd  Cit.  Truly,  sir,  to  wear  out  their  shoes,  to  get  myself  into 
more  work.  But,  indeed,  sir,  we  make  holiday,  to  see  Caesar,  and 
to  rejoice  in  his  triumph. 

Mar.  Wherefore  rejoice  ?     What  conquest  brings  he  home  ? 
What  tributaries  follow  him  to  Rome, 
To  grace  in  captive  bonds  his  chariot  wheels  ? 
You  blocks,  you  stones,  you  worse  than  senseless  things ! 
O,  you  hard  hearts,  you  cruel  men  of  Rome, 
Knew  you  not  Pompey  ?     Many  a  time  and  oft 
Have  you  climb'd  up  to  walls  and  battlements, 
To  towers  and  windows,  yea,  to  chimney-tops, 
Your  infants  in  your  arms,  and  there  have  sat 
The  live-long  day,  with  patient  expectation, 
To  see  great  Pompey  pass  the  streets  of  Rome  : 
And  when  you  saw  his  chariot  but  appear, 
Have  you  not  made  an  universal  shout, 


SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

That  Tiber  trembled  underneath  her  banks, 

To  hear  the  replication  of  your  sounds, 

Made  in  her  concave  shores  ? 

And  do  you  now  put  on  your  best  attire  ? 

And  do  you  now  cull  out  a  holiday  ? 

And  do  you  now  strew  flowers  in  his  way, 

That  comes  in  triumph  over  Pompey's  blood  ? 

Be  gone ! 

Run  to  your  houses,  fall  upon  your  knees, 

Pray  to  the  gods  to  intermit  the  plague 

That  needs  must  light  on  this  ingratitude. 

Flav.  Go,  go,  good  countrymen,  and,  for  this  fault, 
Assemble  all  the  poor  men  of  your  sort ; 
Draw  them  to  Tiber  banks,  and  weep  your  tears 
Into  the  channel,  till  the  lowest  stream 
Do  kiss  the  most  exalted  shores  of  all.  [Exit 

See,  whe'r  their  basest  metal  be  not  mov'd ; 
They  vanish  tongue-tied  in  their  guiltiness. 
Go  you  down  that  way  towards  the  Capitol ; 
This  way  will  I :  Disrobe  the  images, 
If  you  do  find  them  deck'd  with  ceremonies. 

Mar.  May  we  do  so  ? 
You  know,  it  is  the  feast  of  Lupercal. 

Flav.  It  is  no  matter ;  let  no  images 
Be  hung  with  Caesar's  trophies.     I'll  about, 
And  drive  away  the  vulgar  from  the  streets : 
So  do  you  too," where  you  perceive  them  thick. 
These  growing  feathers  pluck'd  from  Ceesar's  wing, 
Will  make  him  fly  an  ordinary  pitch ; 
Who  else  would  soar  above  the  view  of  men, 
And  keep  us  all  in  servile  fearfulness.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— -The  same.     A  public  Place. 

Enter,  in  procession,  with  music,  CAESAR  ;  ANTONY,  for  the  course ; 
CALPHURNIA,  PORTIA,  DECIUS,  CICERO,  BRUTUS,  CASSIUS,  and 
CASCA,  a  great  crowd  following ;  among  them  a  Soothsayer. 

Sooth.  Caesar. 

Cas,  Who  is  it  in  the  press,  that  calls  on  me  ? 
I  hear  a  tongue,  shriller  than  all  the  music, 
Cry,  Caesar :  speak ;  Caesar  is  turn'd  to  hear. 

Sooth.  Beware  the  ides  of  March. 

Cces.  What  man  is  that  t 

Bru.  A  soothsayer,  bids  you  beware  the  ides  of  March. 

Cccs.  Set  him  before  me,  let  me  see  his  face. 

Cas.  Fellow,  come  from  the  throng :  Look  upon  Caesar. 

Cccs.  What  say'st  thou  to  me  now  ?     Speak  once  again. 

Sooth.  Beware  the  ides  of  March. 


JULIUS    CJESAR.  321 

Cas.  He  is  a  dreamer ;  let  us  leave  him  ; — pass. 

[Exeunt  all  but  BRUTUS  and  CASSIUS. 

Cas.  Will  you  go  see  the  order  of  the  course  ? 

Bru.  Not  I. 

Cas.  I  pray  you,  do. 

Bru.  I  am  not  gamesome :  I  do  lack  some  part 
Of  that  quick  spirit  that  is  in  Antony. 
Let  me  not  hinder,  Cassius,  your  desires  ; 
I'll  leave  you. 

Cas.  Brutus,  I  do  observe  you  now  of  late  : 
I  have  not  from  your  eyes  that  gentleness, 
And  show  of  love,  as  I  was  wont  to  have  : 
You  bear  too  stubborn  and  too  strange  a  hand 
Over  your  friend  that  loves  you. 

Bru.  Cassius, 

Be  not  deceiv'd  :  If  I  have  veil'd  my  look, 
I  turn  the  trouble  of  my  countenance 
Merely  upon  myself.     Vexed  I  am, 
Of  late,  with  passions  of  some  difference, 
Conceptions  only  proper  to  myself, 
Which  give  some  soil,  perhaps,  to  my  behaviors : 
But  let  not  therefore  my  good  friends  be  griev'd ; 
(Among  which  number,  Cassius,  .be  you  one  ;) 
Nor  construe  any  further  my  neglect, 
Than  that  poor  Brutus,  with  himself  at  war, 
Forgets  the  shows  of  love  to  other  men. 

Cas.  Then,  Brutus,  I  have  much  mistook  your  passion ; 
By  means  whereof,  this  breast  of  mine  hath  buried 
Thoughts  of  great  value,  worthy  cogitations. 
Tell  me,  good  Brutus,  can  you  see  your  face  ? 

Bru.  No,  Cassius  :  for  the  eye  sees  not  itself, 
But  by  reflection,  by  some  other  things. 

Cas.  'Tisjust: 

And  it  is  very  much  lamented,  Brutus, 
That  you  have  no  such  mirrors^as  will  turn    - 
Your  hidden  worthiness  into  your  eye, 
That  you  might  see  your  shadow.     I  have  heard, 
Where  many  of  the  best  respect  in  Rome, 
(Except  immortal  Caesar,)  speaking  of  Brutus, 
And  groaning  underneath  this  age's  yoke, 
Have  wish'd  that  noble  Brutus  had  his  eyes. 

Bru.  Into  what  dangers  would  you  lead  me,  Cassius, 
That  you  would  have  me  seek  into  myself 
For  that  which  is  not  in  me  ? 

Cas.  Therefore,  good  Brutus,  be  prepar'd  to  hear : 
And,  since  you  know  you  cannot  see  yourself 
So  well  as  by  reflection,  I,  your  glass, 
Will  modestly  discover  to  yourself 
That  of  yourself  which  you  yet  know  not  of. 


322  SHAKSPEARIAN   READER. 

And  be  not  jealous  of  me,  gentle  Brutus : 

Were  1  a  common  laugher,  or  did  use 

To  stale  with  ordinary  oaths  my  love 

To  every  new  protester ;  if  you  know 

That  I  do  fawn  on  men,  and  hug  them  hard, 

And  after  scandal  them  ;  or  if  you  know 

That  I  profess  myself  in  banqueting 

To  all  the  rout,  then  hold  me  dangerous.  [Flourish  and  sliana 

Bru.  What  means  this  shouting  ?     I  do  fear,  the  people 
Choose  Caesar  for  their  king. 

Cas.  Ay,  do  you  fear  it  ? 

Then  must  I  think  you  would  not  have  it  so. 

Bru.  I  would  not,  Cassius  ;  yet  I  love  him  well : — 
But  wherefore  do  you  hold  me  here  so  long  ? 
What  is  it  that  you  would  impart  to  me  ? 
If  it  be  aught  toward  the  general  good, 
Set  honor  in  one  eye,  and  death  i'  the  other, 
And  I  will  look  on  both  indifferently  : 
For,  let  the  gods  so  speed  me,  as  I  love 
The  name  of  honor  more  than  I  fear  death. 

Cas.  I  know  that  virtue  to  be  in  you,  Brutus, 
As  well  as  I  do  know  your  outward  favor. 
Well,  honor  is  the  subject  of  my  story. — 
I  cannot  tell,  what  you  and  other  men 
Think  of  this  life  ;  but,  for  my  single  self, 
I  had  as  lief  not  be,  as  live  to  be 
In  awe  of  such  a  thing  as  I  myself. 
I  was  born  free  as  Caesar  ;  so  were  you : 
We  both  have  fed  as  well ;  and  we  can  both 
Endure  the  winter's  cold,  as  well  as  he. 
For  once,  upon  a  raw  and  gusty  day, 
The  troubled  Tiber  chafing  with  her  shores, 
Caesar  said  to  me,  Dar'st  thou,  Cassius,  now 
Leap  in  with  me  into  this  angry  flood, 
And  swim  to  yonder  point  ? — Upon  the  word, 
Accouter'd  as  I  was,  I  plunged  in, 
And  bade  him  follow :  so,  indeed,  he  did. 
The  torrent  roar'd  ;  and  we  did  buffet  it 
With  lusty  sinews  ;  throwing  it  aside 
And  stemming  it  with  hearts  of  controversy. 
But  ere  we  could  arrive  the  point  propos'd, 
Caesar  cry'd,  Help  me,  Cassius,  or  I  sink. 
I,  as  ^Eneas,  our  great  ancestor, 
Did  from  the  flames  of  Troy  upon  his  shoulder 
The  old  Anchises  bear,  so,  from  the  waves  of  Tiber 
Did  I  the  tir'd  Caesar :  And  this  man 
»s  now  become  a  god  ;  and  Cassius  is 
A  wretched  creature,  and  must  bend  his  body, 
If  Caesar  carelessly  but  nod  on  him. 


JULIUS    CAESAR.  323 

He  had  a  fever  when  he  was  in  Spain, 

And,  when  the  fit  was  on  him,  I  did  mark 

How  he  did  shake :  'tis  true,  this  god  did  shake. 

His  coward  lips  did  from  their  color  fly  ; 

And  that  same  eye,  whose  bend  doth  awe  the  world, 

Did  lose  his  lustre  :  I  did  hear  him  groan  : 

Ay,  and  that  tongue  of  his,  that  bade  the  Romans 

Mirk  him,  and  write  his  speeches  in  their  books, 

Alas  !  it  cried,  Give  me  some  drink,  Titinius, 

As  a  sick  girl.     Ye  gods,  it  doth  amaze  me, 

A  man  of  such  a  feeble  temper  should 

So  get  the  start  of  the  majestic  world, 

And  bear  the  palm  alone.  f  Shout.     Flourish, 

Bru.  Another  general  shout ! 
I  do  believe,  that  these  applauses  are 
For  some  new  honors  that  are  heap'd  on  Caesar. 

Cas.  Why,  man,  he  doth  bestride  the  narrow  world, 
Like  a  Colossus  ;  and  we  petty  men 
Walk  under  his  huge  legs,  and  peep  about 
To  find  ourselves  dishonorable  graves. 
Men  at  some  time  are  masters  of  their  fates  : 
The  fault,  dear  Brutus,  is  not  in  our  stars, 
But  in  ourselves,  that  we  are  underlings. 
Brutus,  and  Caesar :  What  should  be  in  that  Caesar  ? 
Why  should  that  name  be  sounded  more  than  yours  ? 
Write  them  together,  yours  is  as  fair  a  name ; 
Sound  them,  it  doth  become  the  mouth  as  well ; 
Weigh  them,  it  is  as  heavy ;  conjure  with  them, 
Brutus  will  start  a  spirit  as  soon  as  Caesar.  'Shout 

Now  in  the  names  of  all  the  gods  at  once, 
Upon  what  meat  doth  this  our  Caesar  feed, 
That  he  is  grown  so  great  ?     Age,  thou  art  sham'd ; 
Rome,  thou  hast  lost  the  breed  of  noble  bloods ! 
When  went  there  by  an  age,  since  the  great  flood, 
But  it  was  fam'd  with  more  than  with  one  man  ? 
When  could  they  say,  till  now,  that  talk'd  of  Rome, 
That  her  wide  walks  encompass'd  but  one  man  ? 
O !  you  and  I  have  heard  our  fathers  say, 
There  was  a  Brutus  once,  that  would  have  brook'd 
The  eternal  devil  to  keep  his  state  in  Rome, 
As  easily  as  a  king. 

Bru.  That  you  do  love  me,  I  am  nothing  jealous ; 
What  you  would  work  me  to,  I  have  some  aim ; 
How  I  have  thought  of  this,  and  of  these  times, 
I  shall  recount  hereafter ;  for  this  present, 
I  would  not,  so  with  love  I  might  entreat  you, 
Be  any  further  mov'd.     What  you  have  said, 
I  will  consider ;  what  you  have  to  say, 
I  will  with  patience  hea* :  and  find  a  time 


324  SHAKSPEAR1AN    READER. 

Both  meet  to  hear,  and  answer,  such  high  things. 

Till  then,  my  noble  friend,  chew  upon  this ; 

Brutus  had  rather  be  a  villager, 

Than  to  repute  himself  a  son  of  Rome 

Under  these  hard  conditions  as  this  time 

Is  like  to  lay  upon  us. 

Cas.  I  am  gldd,  that  my  weak  words 
Have  struck  but  thus  much  show  of  fire  from  Brutus. 

Re-enter  CAESAR,  and  Ins  Train. 
Bru.  The  games  are  done,  and  Caesar  is  returning. 
Cas.  As  they  pass  by,  pluck  Casca  by  the  sleeve ; 
And  he  will,  after  his  sour  fashion,  tell  you 
What  hath  proceeded,  worthy  note,  to-day. 

Bru.  I  will  do  so : — But,  look  you,  Cassius, 
The  angry  spot  doth  glow  on  Caesar's  brow, 
And  all  the  rest  look  like  a  chidden  train : 
Calphurnia's  cheek  is  pale ;  and  Cicero 
Looks  with  such  ferret  and  such  fiery  eyes, 
As  we  have  seen  him  in  the  Capitol, 
"Being  cross'd  in  conference  by  some  senators. 
Cas.  Casca  will  tell  us  what  the  matter  is. 
CCBS.  Antonius. 
Ant.  Caesar. 

CCBS.  Let  me  have  men  about  me  that  are  fat ; 
Sleek-headed  men,  and  such  as  sleep  o'  nights  : 
Yond'  Cassius  has  a  lean  and  hungry  look ; 
He  thinks  too  much :  such  men  are  dangerous. 

Ant.  Fear  him  not,  Caesar,  he's  not  dangerous  ; 
He  is  a  noble  Roman,  and  well  given. 

Cccs.  'Would  he  were  fatter : — But  I  fear  him  not: 
Yet  if  my  name  were  liable  to  fear, 
I  do  not  know  the  man  I  should  avoid 
So  soon  as  that  spare  Cassius.     He  reads  much, 
He  is  a  great  observer ;  and  he  looks 
Quite  through  the  deeds  of  men ;  he  loves  no  plays, 
As  thou  dost,  Antony ;  he  hears  no  music: 
Seldom  he  smiles  ;  and  smiles  in  such  a  sort, 
As  if  he  mock'd  himself,  and  scorn'd  his  spirit 
That  could  be  mov'd  to  smile  at  any  thing. 
Such  men  as  he  be  never  at  heart's  ease. 
Whiles  they  behold  a  greater  than  themselves  ; 
And  therefore  are  they  very  dangerous, 
I  rather  tell  thee  what  is  to  be  fear'd, 
Than  what  I  fear,  for  always  I  am  Caesar. 
Come  on  my  right  hand,  for  this  ear  is  deaf, 
And  tell  me  truly  what  thou  think'st  of  him. 

[Exeunt  CJESAR  and  Ti\s  Train.     CASCA  stays  behina. 
Casey   You  pull'd  me  by  the  cloak ;  Would    ou  speak  with  me  ' 


JULIUS   C^SAR.  325 

Bru.  Ay,  Casca  ;  tell  us  what  hath  chanc'd  to-day, 
That  Caesar  looks  so  sad  ? 

Casca.  Why  you  were  with  him,  were  you  not  ? 

Bru.  I  should  not  then  ask  Casca  what  hath  chanc'd. 

Casca.  Why,  there  was  a  crown  offered  him:  and  being  offered 
him,  he  put  it  by  with  the  back  of  his  hand,  thus ;  and  then  the 
people  fell  a'  shouting. 

Bru.  What  was  the  second  noise  for  ? 

Casca.  Why,  for  that  too. 

Gas.  They  shouted  thrice  ;  What  was  the  last  cry  for  ? 

Casca.  Why,  for  that  too. 

Bru.  Was  the  crown  ofTer'd  him  thrice  ? 

Casca.  Ay,  marry,  was't,  and  he  put  it  by  thrice,  every  time 
gentler  than  other ;  and  at  every  putting  by,  mine  honest  neighbors 
shouted. 

Cas.  Who  offer'd  him  the  crown  ? 

Casca.  Why,  Antony. 

Bru.  Tell  us  the  manner  of  it,  gentle  Casca. 

Casca.  I  can  as  well  be  hanged,  as  tell  the  manner  of  it :  it  was 
mere  foolery.  I  did  not  mark  it.  T  saw  Mark  Antony  offer  him  a 
crown  ; — yet  'twas  not  a  crown  neither,  'twas  one  of  these  coronets , 
— and,  as  I  told  you,  he  put  it  by  once ;  but,  for  all  that,  to  my  think- 
ing, he  would  fain  have  had  it.  Then  he  offered  it  to  him  again  •, 
then  he  put  it  by  again ;  but,  to  my  thinking,  he  was  very  loath  to 
lay  his  fingers  off  it.  And  then  he  offered  it  a  third  time  ;  he  put  it 
the  third  time  by  :  and  still  as  he  refused  it,  the  rabblement  hooted, 
and  clapped  their  chapped  hands,  and  threw  up  their  sweaty  night- 
caps, and  uttered  such  a  deal  of  stinking  breath,  because  Caesar  re- 
fused the  crown,  that  it  had  almost  choked  Caesar ;  for  he  swooned, 
and  fell  down  at  it. 

Cas.  But,  soft,  I  pray  you  :  .What  ?    Did  Caesar  swoon  ? 

Casca.  He  fell  down  in  the  market-place,  and  foamed  at  mouth, 
and  was  speechle?0 

Bru.  'Tis  very  lifctj :  he  hath  the  falling-sickness. 

Cas.  No,  Caesar  hath  it  not ;  but  you,  and  I, 
And  honest  Casca,  we  have  the  falling-sickness. 

Casca.  I  know  not  what  you  mean  by  that ;  but,  I.am  sure,  Caesar 
fell  down.  If  the  tag-rag  people  did  not  clap  him,  and  hiss  him, 
according  as  he  pleased  and  displeased  them,  as  they  use  to  do  the 
players  in  the  theatre,  I  am  no  true  man. 

Bru.  What  said  he,  when  he  came  unto  himself? 

Casca.  Marry,  before  he  fell  down,  when  he  perceived  the  com- 
mon herd  was  glad  he  refused  the  crown,  he  pluck'd  me  ope  his 
doublet,  and  offered  them  his  throat  to  cut — an  I  had  been  a  man 
of  any  occupation,  I  would  have  taken  him  at  a  word — and  so  he 
fell.  When  he  came  to  himself  again,  he  said,  If  he  had  done,  or 
said,  any  thing  amiss,  he  desired  their  worships  to  think  it  was  his 
infirmity. 

Bru.  And  after  that,  he  came,  thus  sad,  away  ? 


3*26  SHAKSPEARIAN   READER. 

Casca.  Ay. 

Cas.  Did  Cicero  say  any  thing  ? 

Casca.  Ay,  he  spoke  Greek. 

Cas.  To  what  effect  ? 

Casr.a.  Nay,  an  I  tell  you  that,  I'll  ne'er  look  you  i'  the  face 
again :  But  those,  that  understood  him,  smiled  at  one  another,  and 
shook  their  heads :  but,  for  mine  own  part,  it  was  Greek  to  me.  I 
could  toll  you  more  news  too:  Marullus  and  Flavius,  for  pulling 
scarfs  off  Caesar's  images,  are  put  to  silence.  Fare  you  well.  There 
v/as  more  foolery  yet,  if  I  couid  remember  it. 

Cas.  Will  you  sup  with  me  to-night,  Casca  ? 

Casca.  No,  I  am  promised  forth. 

Cas.  Will  you  dine  with  me  to-morrow  ? 

Casca.  Ay,  if  I  be  alive,  and  your  mind  hold,  and  your  dinner 
worth  the  eating. 

Cas.  Good ;  I  will  expect  you. 

Casca.  Do  so :  Farewell,  both.  [Exit  CASCA. 

Bru.  What  a  blunt  fellow  is  this  grown  to  be  ? 
He  was  quick  mettle,  when  he  went  to  school. 

Cas.  So  is  he  now,  in  execution 
Of  any  bold  or  noble  enterprise, 
However  he  puts  on  this  tardy  form. 
This  rudeness  is  a  sauce  to  his  good  wit, 
Which  gives  men  stomach  to  digest  his  words 
With  better  appetite. 

Bru.  And  so  it  is.     For  this  time  I  will  leave  you : 
To-morrow,  if  you  please  to  speak  with  me, 
I  will  come  home  to  you  ;  or,  if  you  will, 
Come  home  to  me,  and  I  will  wait  for  you. 

Cas.  I  will  do  so : — till  then,  think  of  the  world.     [Exit  BRUTUS. 
Well,  Brutus,  thou  art  noble ;  yet,  I  see, 
Thy  honorable  metal  may  be  wrought 
From  that  it  is  dispos'd :  Therefore,  'tis  meet 
That  noble  minds  keep  ever  with  their  likes  : 
For  who  so  firm,  that  cannot  be  seduc'd  ? . 
Caesar  doth  bear  me  hard :  But  he  loves  Brutus 
If  I  were  Brutus  now,  and  he  were  Cassius, 
He  should  not  humor  me.     I  will  this  night, 
In  several  hands,  in  at  his  windows  throw, 
As  if  they  came  from  several  citizens, 
Writings,  all  tending  to  the  great  opinion 
That  Rome  holds  of  his  name  ;  wherein  obscurely, 
Caesar's  ambition  shall  be  glanc'd  at : 
And,  after  this,  let  Caesar  seat  him  sure  ; 
For  we  will  shake  him,  or  worse  days  endure.  [Exit 


JULIUS    CAESAR.  327 


ACT  II. 

Cassius  writes  certain  anonymous  papers  to  Brutus,  instigating  him  to  join  with  tin 
sonspirators ;  these  are  secretly  conveyed  by  Cinna,  and  are  found  by  Brutus. 
.     In  the  morning,  the  whole  of  the  conspirators,  headed  by  Cassius,  repair  to  Brutus,  to 
n:xc  their  solicitations  personally. 

SCENE.— The  same.     Brutus's  Orchard. 
Enter  BRUTUS. 

Bru.  What,  Lucius  !  ho ! — 
I  cannot,  by  the  progress  of  the  stars. 
Give  guess  how  near  to  day. — Lucius,  I  say  ! — 
I  would  it  were  my  fault  to  sleep  so  soundly. — 
When,  Lucius,  when  ?  awake,  I  say :  What,  Lucius  ! 

Enter  Lucius. 

Luc.  Call'd  you,  my  lord  ? 

Bru.  Get  me  a  taper  in  my  study,  Lucius  : 
When  it  is  lighted,  come  and  call  me  here. 

Luc.  I  will,  my  lord.  Exit. 

Bru.  It  must  be  by  his  death  :  and,  for  my  part, 
I  know  no  personal  cause  to  spurn  at  him, 
But  for  the  general.     He  would  be  crown'd  : — 
How  that  might  change  his  nature,  there's  the  question. 
It  is  the  bright  day,  that  brings  forth  the  adder ; 
And  that  craves  wary  walking.     Crown  him  ? — That ; — 
And  then,  I  grant,  we  put  a  sting  in  him, 
That  at  his  will  he  may  do  danger  with. 
The  abuse  of  greatness  is,  when  it  disjoins 
Remorse  from  power :  And  to  speak  truth  of  Caesar, 
I  have  not  known  when  his  affections  sway'd 
More  than  his  reason.     But  'tis  a  common  proof, 
That  lowliness  is  young  ambition's  ladder, 
Whereto  the  climber-upward  turns  his  face  : 
But  when  he  once  attains  the  utmost  round, 
He  then  unto  the  ladder  turns  his  back, 
Looks  in  the  clouds,  scorning  the  base  degrees 
By  which  he  did  ascend :  So  Caesar  may ; 
Then,  lest  he  may,  prevent.     And,  since  the  quarrel 
Will  bear  no  color  for  the  thing  he  is, 
Fashion  it  thus  ;  that  what  he  is,  augmented, 
Would  run  to  these  and  these  extremities  : 
And  therefore  think  him  as  a  serpent's  egg, 
Which,  hatch'd,  would,  as  his  kind,  grow  mischievous  ; 
And  kill  him  in  the  shell. 


828  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 


Re-enter  Lucius. 

Luc.  The  taper  burneth  in  your  closet,  sir. 
Searching  the  window  for  a  flint,  I  found 
This  paper,  thus  seal'd  up  ;  and,  1  am  sure, 
It  did  not  lie  there,  when  I  went  to  bed. 

Bru.  Get  you  to  bed  again,  it  is  not  day. 
Is  not  to-morrow,  boy,  the  ides  of  March  ? 

Luc.  I  know  not,  sir. 

Br*u.  Look  in  the  calendar,  and  bring  me  word. 

Luc.  I  will,  sir.  [Exit 

Bru.  The  exhalations,  whizzing  in  the  air, 
Give  so  much  light,  that  I  may  read  by  them. 

{Opens  the  lettef,  and  reads, 
Brutus,  tliou  sleep1  st ;  awake,  and  see  thyself. 
Shall  Rome,  <f*c.     Speak,  strike,  redress ! 

Brutus,  thou  sleep* st ;  awake, 

Such  instigations  have  been  often  dropp'd 

Where  I  have  took  them  up. 

Shall  Rome,  <Sfc.     Thus  must  I  piece  it  out ; 

Shall  Rome  stand  under  one  man's  awe  ?     What !  Rome  ? 

My  ancestors  did  from  the  streets  of  Rome 

The  Tarquin  drive,  when  he  was  call'd  a  king. 

Speak,  strike,  redress ! — Am  I  entreated  then 

To  speak,  and  strike  ?     O  Rome  !  I  make  thee  promise, 

If  the  redress  will  follow,  thou  receiv'st 

Thy  full  petition  at  the  hand  of  Brutus  ! 

Re-enter  Lucius. 

Luc.  Sir,  March  is  wasted  fourteen  days.  \Knoc~k  within 

Bru.  Tis  good.     Go  to  the  gate  :  somebody  knocks. 

[Exit  Lucius. 

Since  Cassius  first  did  whet  me  against  Csesar, 

I  have  not  slept. 

Between  the  acting  of  a  dreadful  thing, 

And  the  first  motion,  all  the  interim  is 

Like  a  phantasma,  or  a  hideous  dream  : 

The  genius,  and  the  mortal  instruments 

Are  then  in  council ;  and  the  state  of  man, 

Like  to  a  little  kingdom,  suffers  then 

The  nature  tf  an  insurrection. 

Re-enter  Lucius. 

Luc.  Sir,  'tis  your  brother  Cassius  at  the  door, 
Who  doth  desire  to  see  you. 

Bru.  Is  he  alone  ? 

Luc.  No,  sir,  there  are  more  with  him. 

Bru-  Do  you  know  them  ? 

Luc.  No,  sir ;  their  hats  are  Dluck'd  about  their  ears, 


JULIUS    CJESAR.  3'29 

And  half  their  faces  buried  in  their  cloaks, 
That  by  no  means  I  may  discover  them 
By  any  mark  of  favor. 

Bru.  Let  them  enter.  [Exit  Lucius, 

They  are  the  faction  !     O  conspiracy  ! 
Sham'st  thou  to  show  thy  dangerous  brow  by  night, 
When  evils  are  most  free  ?     O,  then,  by  day, 
Where  wilt  thou  find  a  cavern  dark  enough 
To  mask  thy  monstrous  visage  ?     Seek  none,  conspiracy  ! 
Hide  it  in  smiles  and  affability : 
For  if  thou  put  thy  native  semblance  on, 
Not  Erebus  itself  were  dim  enough 
To  hide  thee  from  prevention. 

Enter  CASSIUS,  CASCA,  DECIUS,  CINNA,  METELLUS  CIMBER,  and 
TREBONIUS. 

Cas.  I  think  we  are  too  bold  upon  your  rest : 
Good  morrow,  Brutus.    Do  we  trouble  you  ? 

Bru.  I  have  been  up  this  hour  ;  awake,  all  night. 
Know  I  these  men,  that  come  along  with  you  ? 

Cas.  Yes,  every  man  of  them  ;  and  no  man  here, 
But  honors  you  :  and  every  one  doth  wish, 
You  had  but  that  opinion  of  yourself 
Which  every  noble  Roman  bears  of  yon. 
This  is  Trebonius. 

Bru.  He  is  welcome  hither. 

Cas.  This,  Decius  Brutus. 

Bru.  He  is  welcome  too. 

Cas.  This,  Casca  ;  this,  Cinna ; 
And  this,  Metellus  Cimber. 

Bru.  They  are  all  welcome. 

What  watchful  cares  do  interpose  themselves 
Betwixt  your  eyes  and  night  ? 
Give  me  your  hands  all  over,  one  by  one. 

Cas.  And  let  us  swear  our  resolution. 

Bru.  No,  not  an  oa'h  :  If  not  the  face  of  men, 
The  sufferance  of  our  souls,  the  time's  abuse, — 
If  these  be  motives  weak,  break  off  betimes, 
And  every  man  hence  to  his  idle  bed ; 
So  let  high-sighted  tyranny  range  on, 
Till  each  man  drop  by  lottery.     But  if  these, 
As  I  am  sure  they  do,  bear  fire  enough 
To  kindle  cowards,  and  to  steel  with  valor 
The  mSlting  spirits  of  women  ;  then,  countrymen, 
What  need  we  any  spur  but  our  own  cause, 
To  urge  us  to  redress  ? 

Cas.  But  what  of  Cicero  ?     Shall  we  sound  him  ? 
I  think,  he  will  stand  very  strong  with  us. 

Casca.  Let  us  not  leave  him  out. 


330  SHAKSPEAR1AN   READER. 

Cm  No,  by  no  means. 

Met  O  let  us  have  him  ;  for  his  silver  hairs 
Will  purchase  us  a  good  opinion, 
And  buy  men's  voices  to  commend  our  deeds. 

Bru.  O,  name  him  not ;  let  us  not  break  with  him  : 
For  he  will  never  follow  any  thing 
That  other  men  begin. 

Cas,  Then  leave  him  out. 

Casca,  Indeed,  he  is  not  fit. 

Dec.  Shall  no  man  else  be  touch'd  but  only  Caesar  ? 

Cas.  Decius,  well  urg'd  : — I  think  it  is  not  meet, 
Mark  Antony,  so  well  belov'd  of  Caesar, 
Should  outlive  Caesar :  We  shall  find  of  him 
A  shrewd  contriver ;  and,  you  know  his  means, 
If  he  improve  them,  may  well  stretch  so  far 
As  to  annoy  us  all :  which  to  prevent, 
Let  Antony,  and  Caesar,  fall  together. 

Bru.  Our  course  will  seem  too  bloody,  Caius  Cassius, 
To  cut  the  head  off,  and  then  hack  the  limbs ; 
Like  wrath  in  death,  and  envy  afterwards : 
For  Antony  is  but  a  limb  of  Caesar. 
Let  us  be  sacrificers,  but  no  butchers,  Caius. 
We  all  stand  up  against  the  spirit  of  Caesar  . 
And  in  the  spirit  of  men  there  is  no  blood  : 
O,  that  we  then  could  come  by  Caesar's  spirit, 
And  not  dismember  Caesar !     But,  alas, 
Caesar  must  bleed  for  it !     And,  gentle  friends, 
Let's  kill  him  boldly,  but  not  wrathfully ; 
Let's  carve  him  as  a  dish  fit  for  the  gods, 
Not  hew  him  as  a  carcass  fit  for  hounds  : 
And  let  our  hearts,  as  subtle  masters  do, 
Stir  up  their  servants  to  an  act  of  rage, 
And  after  seem  to  chide  them.     This  shall  make 
Our  purpose  necessary,  and  not  envious : 
Which  so  appearing  to  the  common  eyes, 
We  shall  be  call'd  purgers,  not  murderers. 
And  for  Mark  Antony,  think  not  of  him  ; 
For  he  can  do  no  more  than  Caesar's  arm, 
When  Caesar's  head  is  off. 

Cas.  Yet  I  do  fear  him  ; 

For  in  the  ingrafted  love  he  bears  to  Caesar,—— 

Bru.  Alas,  good  Cassius,  do  not  think  of  him : 
If  he  love  Caesar,  all  that  he  can  do 
Is  to  himself;  take  thought,  and  die  for  Caesar : 
And  that  were  much  he  should  ;  for  he  is  given 
To  sports,  to  wildness,  and' much  company. 

Treb.  There  is  no  fear  in  him  ;  let  him  not  die ; 
For  he  will  live,  and  laugh  at  this  hereafter.  [Ciocfc  strikes. 

Bru.  Peace,  count  the  clock. 


JULIUS   CJESAR.  331 

Jas.  The  clock  hath  stricken  three. 

Treb.  Tis  time  to  part. 

Cas.  But  it  is  doubtful  yet, 

Whether  Caesar  will  come  forth  to-day,  or  no : 
For  he  is  superstitious  grown  of  1-ate  ; 
Quite  from  the  main  opinion  he  held  once 
Of  fantasy,  of  dreams,  and  ceremonies  : 
It  may  be,  these  apparent  prodigies, 
The  unaccustom'd  terror  of  this  night, 
And  the  persuasion  of  his  auguries, 
May  hold  him  from  the  Capitol  to-day. 

Dec.  Never  fear  that :  If  he  be  so  resolv'd, 
I  can  o'ersway  him :  for  he  loves  to  hear, 
That  unicorns  may  be  betray 'd  with  trees, 
And  bears  with  glasses,  elephants  with  holed, 
Lions  with  toils,  and  men  with  flatterers  : 
But,  when  I  tell  him,  he  hates  flatterers, 
He  says,  he  does ;  being  then  most  flattered. 
Let  me  work : 

For  I  can  give  his  humor  the  true  bent ; 
And  I  will  bring  him  to  the  Capitol. 

Cas.  Nay,  we  will  all  of  us  be  there  to  fetch  him. 

Bru.  By  the  eighth  hour  :  Is  that  the  uttermost  ? 

Cm.  Be  that  the  uttermost,  and  fail  not  then. 

Cas.  The  morning  comes  upon  us :  We'll  leave  you,  Brutus  . — 
Arid,  friends,  disperse  yourselves :  but  all  remember 
What  you  have  said,  and  show  yourselves  true  Romans. 

Bru.  Good  gentlemen,  look  fresh  and  merrily  ; 
Let  not  our  looks  put  on  our  purposes  : 
But  bear  it  as  our  Roman  actors  do, 
With  untir'd  spirits,  and  formal  constancy  : 

And  so,  good-morrow  to  you  every  one.       [Exeunt  all  but  BRUTUS, 
Boy  i  Lucius ! — Fast  asleep  ?     It  is  no  matter ; 
Enjoy  the  honey-heavy  dew  of  slumber : 
Thou  hast  no  figures,  nor  no  fantasies, 
Which  busy  care  draws  in  the  brains  of  men : 
Therefore  thou  sleep'st  so  sound. 

Enter  PORTIA. 

Por.  Brutus,  my  lord ! 

Bru.  Portia,  what  mean  you  ?     Wherefore  rise  you  now  ? 
It  is  not  for  your  health,  thus  to  commit 
Your  weak  condition  to  the  raw-cold  morning. 

Por.  Nor  for  yours  neither.     You  have  ungently,  Biutus, 
Sfole  from  my  room :  And  yesternight,  at  supper, 
You  sudden.y  arose,  and  walked  about, 
Musing  and  sighing,  with  your  arms  across : 
And  when  I  ask'd  you  what  the  matter  was, 
You  star'd  uoon  me  with  ungentle  looks  : 


332  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

1  urg'd  you  further  ;  then  you  scratch'd  your  head, 
And  loo  impatiently  stamp'd  with  your  foot  * 
Yet  I  insisted,  yet  you  answer'd  not ; 
But,  with  an  angry  wafture  of  your  hand, 
Gave  sign  for  me  to  leave  you  :  So  I  did ; 
Fearing  to  strengthen  that  impatience, 
Which  seem'd  too  much  enkindled ;  and,  withal, 
Hoping  it  was  but  an  effect  of  humor 
Which  sometimes  hath  his  hour  with  every  man. 
It  will  not  let  you  eat,  nor  talk,  nor  sleep ; 
And,  could  it  work  so  much  upon  your  shape, 
As  it  hath  much  prevail'd  on  your  condition, 
[  should  not  know  you,  Brutus.     Dear,  my  lord, 
Make  me  acquainted  with  your  cause  of  grief. 

Bru.  I  am  not  well  in  health,  and  that  is  all. 

For.  Brutus  is  wise,  and,  were  he  not  in  health, 
He  would  embrace  the  means  to  come  by  it. 

Bru.  Why,  so  I  do  :  Good  Portia,  leaw  me. 

Por.  Is  Bmtus  sick  ?  and  is  it  physical 
To  walk  unbraced,  and  suck  up  the  humors 
Of  the  dank  morning  ?     What,  is  Brutus  sick ; 
And  will  he  steal  out  of  his  wholesome  bed, 
To  dare  the  vile  contagion  of  the  night  ? 
And  tempt  the  rheumy  and  unpurged  air 
To  add  unto  his  sickness  ?     No,  my  Brutus ; 
You  have  some  sick  offence  within  your  mind. 
Which,  by  the  right  and  virtue  of  my  place, 
I  ought  to  know  of:  And,  upon  my  knees, 
I  charm  you,  by  my  once  commended  beauty, 
By  all  your  vows  of  love,  and  that  great  vow 
Which  did  incorporate  and  make  us  one, 
That  you  unfold  to  me,  yourself,  your  half, 
Why  you  are  heavy  ;  and  what  men  to-night 
Have  had  resort  to  you  :  for  here  have  been 
Some  six  or  seven,  who  did  hide  their  faces 
Even  from  darkness. 

Bru.  Kneel  not,  gentle  Portia. 

Por.  I  should  not  need,  if  you  were  gentle  Brutus* 
Within  the  bond  of  marriage,  tell  me,  Brutus, 
Is  it  excepted,  I  should  know  no  secrets 
That  appertain  to  you  ?     Am  I  yourself, 
But,  as  it  were,  in  sort  or  limitation  ? 

Bru.  Yo'i  are  my  true  and  honorable  wife : 
As  dear  to  me  as  are  the  ruddy  drops 
That  visit  my  sad  heart. 

Por.  If  this  were  true,  then  should  I  know  this  secret. 
I  grant,  I  am  a  woman ;  but,  withal, 
A  woman  that  lord  Brutus  took  to  wife : 
T  grant,  I  am  a  woman ;  but,  withal, 


JULIUS   CAESAR.  333 


A  woman  well  reputed  ;  Cato's  daughter. 
Think  you,  I  am  no  stron  "er  than  my  sex, 
Being  so  fathei'd,  and  so  husbanded  ? 
Tell  me  your  counsels,  I  will  not  disclose  thenv 
I  have  made  strong  proof  of  my  constancy, 
Giving  myself  a  voluntary  wound. — 
Can  1  bear  that  with  patience, 
And  not  my  husband's  secrets  ? 

Bru.  O  ye  gods 

Render  me  worthy  of  this  noble  wife ! 
Portia,  go  in  a  while ; 
And,  by  and  by  thy  bosom  shall  partake 
The  secrets  of  my  heart. 
All  my  engagements  I  will  construe  to  thee. 
All  the  charactery  of  my  sad  brows  : — 
Leave  me  with  haste. 


ACT  III. 

On  the  day  arranged  by  the  conspirators,  for  the  assassination  of  Ctesar,  he  is  persuaded 
by  Calphurnia  and  the  Augurers,  not  to  go  fortli  to  the  Capitol.  He  resists  all  their  warn- 
ings, and  departs  with  Antony,  Brutus,  &c.,  to  keep  his  appointment^ 

SCENE  I. — The  Capitol ;  the  Senate  silting. 

A  crowd  of  people  in  the  street  leading  to  the  Capitol ;  among  thern, 
ARTEMIDORUS,  and  the  Soothsayer.  Flourish.  Enter  CAESAR, 
BRUTUS,  CASSIUS,  CASCA,  DECIUS,  METELLUS,  TREBONIUS,  CINNA, 
ANTONY,  LEPIDUS,  POPILIUS,  PUBLIUS,  and  others, 

C(cs.  The  ides  of  March  are  come. 

Sooth.  Ay,  Caesar ;  but  not  gone. 

Art*  Hail,  Csesar !  Read  this  schedule, 

Dec   Trebonius  doth  desire  you  to  o'er-read, 
At  your  best  leisure  this  his  humble  suit. 

Art.  O,  Caesar,  read  mine  first ;  for  mine's  a  suit 
That  touches  Caesar  nearer :  Read  it,  great  Caesar. 

Cas.  What  touches  us  ourse.'f,  shall  be  last  scrv'd. 

Art.  Delay  not,  Caesar  ;  read  it  instantly. 

Cccs.  What,  is  the  fellow  mad  ? 

Pub.  Sirrah,  give  place. 

Cas.  What,  urge  you  your  petitions  in  the  street  ? 
Come  to  the  Capitol. 

CJESAR  enters  the  Capitol,  the  rest  following.     All  the  Senators  rise. 

Pop.  I  wish,  your  enterprise  to-day  may  thrive. 

Cas.  What  enterprise,  Popilius  ? 

Pop.  Fare  you  well.  [Advances  to  CJESAR. 

Brv.  What  said  Popilius  Lena  ' 


834  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Gas.  He  wish'd,  to-day  our  enterprise  might  thrive. 
I  fear,  our  purpose  is  discovered. 

Eru.  Look,  how  he  makes  to  Caesar :  Mark  him. 
Cas.  Casca,  be  sudden,  for  we  fear  prevention. — 
Brutus,  what  shall  be  done  ?  If  this  be  known, 
Cassius  or  Caesar  never  shall  turn  back, 
For  I  will  slay  myself. 

Bru.  Cassius  be  constant ; 

Popilius  Lena  speaks  not  of  our  purposes  ; 
For,  look,  he  smiles,  and  Caesar  doth  not  change. 

Cas.  Trebonius  knows  his  time  ;  for,  look  you, 
He  draws  Mark  Antony  out  of  the  way. 

[Exeunt  ANTONY  and  TREBONIUS.     CJESAR  and  the  Senators  takt 

their  seats. 

Dec.  Where  is  Metellus  Cimber  ?  Let  him  go, 
And  presently  prefer  his  suit  to  Caesar. 

Bru.  He  is  addressed  :  press  near,  and  second  him. 
Cin.  Casca,  you  are  the  first  that  rears  your  hand. 
C&s.  Are  we  all  ready  ?  what  is  now  amiss, 
That  Caesar,  and  his  senate,  must  redress  ? 

Met.  Most  high,  most  mighty,  and  most  puissant  Caesar, 
Metellus  Cimber  throws  before  thy  seat 
An  humble  heart :—  [Kneeling. 

Cas.  I  must  prevent  thee,  Cimber. 

These  couchings,  and  these  lowly  courtesies, 
Might  fire  the  blood  of  ordinary  men  ; 
And  turn  pre-ordinance,  and  first  decree, 
Into  the  law  of  children.     Be  not  fond, 
To  think  that  Caesar  bears  such  rebel  blood, 
That  will  be  thaw'd  from  the  true  quality 
With  that  which  melteth  fools  ;  I  mean  sweet  words, 
Low  crooked  curt'sies,  and  base  spaniel  fawning. 
Thy  brother  by  decree  is  banished ; 
If  thou  dost  bend,  and  pray,  and  fawn,  for  him, 
I  spurn  thee  like  a  cur  out  of  my  way. 
Know,  Caesar  doth  not  wrong :  nor  without  cause 
Will  he  be  satisfied. 

Met.  Is  there  no  voice  more  worthy  than  my  own, 
To  sound  more  sweetly  in  great  Caesar's  ear, 
For  the  repealing  of  my  banish'd  brother  ? 

Bru.  I  kiss  thy  hand,  but  not  in  flattery,  Caesar ; 
Desiring  thee,  that  Publius  Cimber  may 
Have  an  immediate  freedom  of  repeal. 
CCES.  What,  Brutus ! 

Cas.  Pardon,  Caesar :  Caesar,  pardon ; 

As  low  as  to  thy  foot  doth  Cassius  fall, 
To  beg  enfranchisement  for  Publius  Cimber. 

Cccs.  I  could  be  well  mov'd,  if  I  were  as  you , 
.f  I  could  pray  to  move,  prayers  would  move  me  : 


runus  CJSSAR. 


335 


But  I  am  constant  as  the  northern  star, 

Of  wiiose  true-rix'd,  and  resting  quality, 

There  is  no  fellow  in  the  firmament. 

The  skies  are  painted  with  unnumber'd  sparks, 

They  are  all  fire,  and  every  one  doth  shine ; 

But  there's  but  one  in  all  doth  hold  his  place : 

So,  in  the  world ;  'Tis  furnish'd  well  with  men, 

And  men  are  flesh  and  blood,  and  apprehensive  ; 

Yet,  in  the  number,  I  do  know  but  one 

That  unassailable  holds  on  his  rank, 

Unshak'd  of  motion  :  and,  that  I  am  he, 

Let  me  a  little  show  it,  even  in  this  ; 

That  I  was  constant,  Cimber  should  be  banish'd, 

And  constant  do  remain  to  keep  him  so. 

Cin.  O  Caesar. 

Cccs.  Hence  !  Wilt  thou  lift  up  Olympus  ? 

Dec.  Great  Caesar, 

Cas.  Doth  not  Brutus  bootless  kneel  ? 

Casca.  Speak,  hands,  for  me. 

[CASCA  stabs  C^ISAR  in  the  neck.     CJESAR  catches  hold^  of  his 
arm.     He  is  then  stalled  by  several  other  Conspirator^ 
and  at  last  by  MARCUS  BRUTUS. 
Cccs.  Et  tu  Brute  1 — Then  fall,  Caesar. 

[Dies.     The  senators  and  people  retire  in  confusion. 
Cin.  Liberty  !  Freedom !  Tyranny  is  dead  ! — 
Run  hence,  proclaim,  cry  it  about  the  streets. 

Cas.  Some  to  the  common  pulpits,  and  cry  out, 
Liberty,  freedom,  and  enfranchisement ! 

Bru.  People,  and  senators  !  be  not  affrighted ; 
Fly  not ;  stand  still : — ambition's  debt  is  paid. 
Casca.  Go  to  the  pulpit,  Brutus. 
Dec,.  And  Cassius  too, 

Bru.  Where's  Publius? 
Cm.  Here,  quite  confounded  with  this  mutiny. 
Met.  Stand  fast  together,  lest  some  friend  of  Caesar's 

Should  chance 

Bru.  Talk  not  of  standing ;— Publius,  good  cheer ; 
There  is  no  harm  intended  to  your  person, 
Nor  to  no  Roman  else :  so  tell  them,  Publius. 

Cas.  And  leave  us,  Publius  ;  lest  that  the  people, 
Rushing  on  us,  should  do  your  age  some  mischief. 

Bru.  Do  so ; — and  let  no  man  abide  this  deed, 
But  we  the  doers. 

Re  enter  TREBONIUS. 

Cas.  Where  is  Antony  ? 

Tre.  Fled  to  his  house  amaz'd: 

Men,  wives,  and  children,  stare,  cry  out,  and  run, 
As  it  were  doomsday. 


£>36  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Bru.  Fates  !  we  will  know  your  pleasures 

That  we  shall  die,  we  know ;  'tis  but  the  time, 
And  drawing  days  out,  that  men  stand  ^ipon. 

Cas.  Why,  he  that  cuts  off  twenty  years  of  life, 
Cuts  off  so  many  years  of  fearing  death. 

Bru.  Grant  that,  and  then  is  death  a  benefit : 
So  are  we  Caesar's  friends,  that  have  abridg'd 
His  time  of  fearing  death. — Stoop,  Romans,  stoop, 
And  let  us  bathe  our  hands  in  Caesar's  blood 
Up  to  the  elbows,  and  besmear  our  swords  : 
Then  walk  we  forth,  even  to  the  market-place ; 
And,  waving  our  red  weapons  o'er  our  heads, 
J-et's  all  cry,  Peace  !  Freedom  !  and  Liberty  ! 

Cas.  Stobp  then,  and  wash. — How  many  ages  hence, 
Shall  this  our  lofty  scene  be  acted  over, 
In  states  unborn,  and  accents  yet  unknown  ? 

Bru.  How  many  times  shall  Caesar  bleed  in  sport, 
That  now  on  Pompey's  basis  lies  along, 
No  worthier  than  the  dust  ? 

Cas.  So  oft  as  that  shall  be, 

So  often  shall  the  knot  of  us  be  call'd 
The  men  that  gave  our  country  liberty. 

Dec.  What,  shall  we  forth  ? 

Cas.  Ay,  every  man  away  ; 

Brutus  shall  lead  ;  and  we  will  grace  his  heels 
With  the  most  boldest  and  best  hearts  of  Rome. 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Bru.  Soft,  who  comes  here  ?     A  friend  of  Antony'e 
Serv.  Thus,  Brutus,  did  my  master  bid  me  kneel ; 

Thus  did  Mark  Antony  bid  me  fall  down  : 

And,  being  prostrate,  thus  he.  bade  me  say. 

Brutus  is  noble,  wise,  valiant,  and  honest : 

Cassar  was  mighty,  bold,  royal,  and  loving  : 

Say,  I  loved  Brutus,  and  I  honor  him  : 

Say,  I  fear'd  Caesar,  honor'd  him,  and  lov'd  him, 

If  Brutus  will  vouchsafe,  that  Antony 

May  safely  come  to  him,  and  be  resolv'd 

How  Caesar  hath  deserv'd  to  lie  in  death, 

Mark  Antony  shall  not  love  Caesar  dead 

So  well  as  Brutus  living  ;  but  will  follow 

The  fortunes  and  affairs  of  noble  Brutus, 

Thorough  the  hazards  of  this  untrod  state, 

With  all  true  faith.     So  says  my  master  Antony. 
Bru.  Thy  master  is  a  wise  and  valiant  Roman  J 

I  never  thought  him  worse. 

Tell  him,  so  please  him  come  unto  this  place, 

He  shall  be  satisfied ;  and,  by  my  honor, 

Depart  untouch'd. 


JULIUS   OESAR.  337 

Serv.  Fll  fetch  him  presently.  [Exit  Servant. 

Bru.  I  know  that  we  shall  have  him  well  to  friend. 

Cas.  I  wish,  we  may  :  but  yet  have  I  a  mind, 
That  fears  him  much ;  and  my  misgiving  still 
Falls  shrewdly  to  the  purpose. 

Re-enter  ANTONY. 

ftru.  But  here  comes  Antony. — Welcome,  Mark  Antony* 

Ant.  O  mighty  Caesar  !  dost  thou  lie  so  low  ? 
Are  all  thy  conquests,  glories,  triumphs,  spoils, 
Shrunk  to  this  little  measure  ? — Fare  thee  well. — 
I  know  not,  gentlemen,  what  you  intend, 
Who  else  must  be  let  blood,  who  else  is  rank 
If  I  myself,  there  is  no  hour  so  fit 
As  Caesar's  death's  hour  ;  nor  no  instrument 
Of  half  that  worth,  as  those  your  swords,  made  rich 
With  the  most  noble  blood  of  all  this  world. 
I  do  beseech  ye,  if  you  bear  me  hard, 
Now,  whilst  your  purpled  hands  do  reek  and  smoke, 
Fulfil  your  pleasure.     Live  a  thousand  years, 
I  shall  not  find  myself  so  apt  to  die  : 
No  place  will  please  me  so,  no  mean  of  death, 
As  here  by  Caesar,  and  by  you  cut  off, 
The  choice  and  master  spirits  of  this  age. 

Bru.  O  Antony  !  beg  not  your  death  of  us. 
Though  now  we  must  appear  bloody  and  cruel, 
As,  by  our  hands,  and  this  our  present  act, 
You  see  we  do ;  yet  see  you  but  our  hands. 
And  this  the  bleeding  business  they  have  done : 
Our  hearts  you  see  not,  they  are  pitiful ; 
And  pity  to  the  general  wrong  of  Rome 
(As  fire  drives  out  fire,  so  pity,  pity,) 
Hath  done  this  deed  on  Caesar.     For  your  part, 
To  you  our  swords  have  leaden  points,  Mark  Antony 
Our  arms,  in  strength  of  malice,  and  our  hearts, 
Of  brothers'  temper,  do  receive  you  in 
With  all  kind  love,  good  thoughts,  and  reverence. 

Cas.  Your  voice  shall  be  as  strong  as  any  man's, 
In  the  disposing  of  new  dignities. 

Bru.  Only  be  patient,  till  we  have  appeas'd 
The  multitude,  beside  themselves  with  fear, 
And  then  we  will  deliver  you  the  cause, 
Why  I,  that  did  love  Caesar  when  I  struck  him, 
Have  thus  proceeded. 

Ant.  I  doubt  not  of  your  wisdom, 

Let  each  man  render  me  his  bloody  hand  : 
First,  Marcus  Brutus,  will  I  shake  with  you : 
Next,  Caius  Cassius,  do  I  take  your  hand  ; 
Now,  Decius  Brutus,  yours  ; — now  yours  Mctcllus ; 


338  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER, 

Yours,  Cinna ; — and,  my  valiant  Casca,  yours  ; — 

Though  last,  not  least  in  love,  yours,  good  Trebonlue, 

Gentlemen  all, — alas  !  what  shall  I  say  ? 

My  credit  now  stands  on  such  slippery  ground, 

That  one  of  two  bad  ways  you  must  conceit  me, 

Either  a  coward  or  a  flatterer. — 

That  I  did  love  thee,  Caesar,  O,  'tis  true : 

If  then  thy  spirit  look  upon  us  now, 

Shall  it  not  grieve  thee,  dearer  than  thy  death, 

To  see  thy  Antony  making  his  peace, 

Shaking  the  bloody  fingers  of  thy  foes, 

Most  noble  !  in  the  presence  of  thy  corse  ? 

Had  I  as  many  eyes  as  thou  hast  wounds, 

Weeping  as  fast  as  they  stream  forth  thy  blood, 

It  would  become  me  better,  than  to  close 

In  terms  of  friendship  with  thine  enemies. 

Pardon  me,  Julius  ! — 

Cas.  Mark  Antony, 

Ant.  Pardon  me,  Caius  Cassius : 

Friends  am  I  with  you  all,  and  love  you  all ; 
Upon  this  hope,  that  you  shall  give  me  reasons, 
Why,  and  wherein  Caesar  was  dangerous. 

Bru.  Or  else  were  this  a  savage  spectacle  : 
Our  reasons  are  so  full  of  good  regard, 
That  were  you,  Antony,  the  son  of  Caesar, 
You  should  be  satisfied. 

Ant.  That's  all  I  seek : 

And  am  moreover  suitor,  that  I  may 
Produce  his  body  to  the  market-place ; 
And  in  the  pulpit,  as  becomes  a  friend, 
Speak  in  the  order  of  his  funeral. 

Bru.  You  shall,  Mark  Antony. 

Cas.  Brutus,  a  word  wi.h  you, — 

You  know  not  what  you  do  ;  Do  not  consent,  [Aside 

That  Antony  speak  in  his  funeral : 
Know  you  how  much  the  people  may  be  mov'd 
By  that  which  he  will  utter  ? 

Bru.  By  your  pardon ; — 

I  will  myself  into  the  pulpit  first, 
And  show  the  reason  of  our  Cassar's  death  : 
What  Antony  shall  speak,  I  will  protest 
He  speaks  by  leave  and  by  permission  ; 
And  that  we  are  contented,  Caesar  shall 
Have  all  true  rites,  and  lawful  ceremonies. 
It  shall  advantage  more,  than  do  us  wrong. 

Cas.  I  know  not  what  may  fall ;  I  like  it  not. 

Bru.  Mark  Antony,  here,  take  your  Caesar's  body. 
You  shall  not  in  your  funeral  speech  blame  us, 
But  speak  all  good  you  can  devise  of  Cassar  ; 


JULIUS    CJESAR.  339 

And  say,  you  do  't  by  our  permission  ; 
Else  shall  you  not  have  any  hand  at  all 
About  his  funeral :  And  you  shall  speak 
In  the  same  pulpit  whereto  I  am  going, 
After  my  speech  is  ended. 

Ant.  Be  it  so ; 

I  do  desire  no  more. 

Bru.  Prepare  the  body  then,  and  follow  us. 

[Exeunt  &H  but  Arrrojiy 

Ant.  O,  pardon  me,  thou  piece  of  bleeding  earth, 
That  I  am  meek  and  gentle  with  these  butchers ! 
Thou  art  the  ruins  of  the  noblest  man, 
That  ever  lived  in  the  tide  of  times. 
Woe  to  the  hand  that  shed  this  costly  blood ! 
Over  thy  wounds  now  do  I  prophesy, — 
Which,  like  dumb  mouths,  do  ope  their  ruby  lips, 
To  beg  the  voice  and  utterance  of  my  tongue ; — 
A  curse  shall  light  upon  the  limbs  of  men ; 
Domestic  fury,  and  fierce  civil  strife, 
Shail  cumber  all  the  parts  of  Italy : 
Blood  and  destruction  shall  be  so  in  use, 
And  dreadful  objects  so  familiar, 
That  mothers  shall  but  smile,  when  they  behold 
Their  infants  quarter'd  with  the  hands  of  war  ; 
All  pity  chok'd  with  custom  of  fell  deeds : 
And  Caesar's  spirit,  ranging  for  revenge, 
With  At6  by  his  side,  come  hot  from  hell, 
Shall  in  these  confines,  with  a  monarch's  voice, 
Cry  Havoc,  and  let  slip  the  dogs  of  war. 

Enter  a  Servant. 
You  serve  Octavius  Caesar,  do  you  not  ? 

Serv.  I  do,  Mark  Antony. 

Ant.  Caesar  did  write  for  him,  to  come  to  Rome. 

Serv.  He  did  receive  his  letters,  and  is  coming : 
And  bid  me  say  to  you  by  word  of  mouth, — 
O  Caesar ! [Seeing  the  Icdy 

Ant.  Thy  heart  is  big,  get  thee  apart  and  weep. 
Passion,  I  see  is  catching ;  for  mine  eyes. 
Seeing  those  beads  of  sorrow  stand  in  thine, 
Began  to  water.     Is  thy  master  coming  ? 

•Sen?.  He  lies  to-night  within  seven  leagues  of  Rome. 

Ant.  Post  back  with  speed,  and  tell  him  what  hath  chanc'd : 
Here  is  a  mourning  Rome,  a  dangerous  Rome, 
No  Rome  of  safety  for  Octavius  yet ; 
Hie  hence,  and  tell  him  so.     Yet,  stay  a  while ; 
Thou  shalt  not  back,  till  I  have  borne  this  corse 
Into  the  market-place :  there  shall  I  try, 
In  my  oration,  how  the  people  take 


340  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

The  cruel  issue  of  these  bloody  men ; 

According  to  the  which,  thou  shall  discourse 

To  young  Octavius  of  the  state  of  things. 

Lend  me  your  hand.  [Exeunt  with  CESAR'S  body 

SCENE  II.— The  same.     The  Forum. 
Enter  BRUTUS  and  CASSIUS,  and  a  throng  of  Citizens. 

Cit.  We  will  be  satisfied  ;  let  us  be  satisfied. 

Bru.  Then  follow  me,  and  give  me  audience,  friends. — 
Cassius,  go  you  into  the  other  street, 
And  part  the  numbers. — 

Those  that  will  hear  me  speak,  let  them  stay  here ; 
Those  that  will  follow  Cassius,  go  with  him ; 
And  public  reasons  shall  be  rendered 
Of  Caesar's  death. 

1st  Cit.  I  will  hear  Brutus  speak. 

2nd  Cit.  I  will  hear  Cassius ;  and  compare  their  reasons, 
When  severally  we  hear  them  rendered. 

[Exit  CASSIUS,  with  some  of  the  Citizens.     BRUT  ITS  goes 
into  the  Rostrum. 

3rd  Cit.  The  noble  Brutus  is  ascended  :  Silence  ! 

Bru.  Be  patient  till  the  last. 

Romans,  countrymen,  and  lovers !  hear  me  for  my  cause ;  and  be 
silent,  that  you  may  hear:  believe  me  for  mine  honor;  and  have 
respect  to  mine  honor,  that  you  may  believe :  censure  me  in  your 
wisdom ;  and  awake  your  senses,  that  you  may  the  better  judge.  If 
there  be  any  in  this  assembly,  any  dear  friend  of  Caesar's,  to  him  I 
say,  that  Brutus'  love  to  Caesar  was  no  less  than  his.  If  then  that 
friend  demand,  why  Brutus  rose  against  Caesar,  this  is  my  answer, — 
Not  that  I  loved  Caesar  less,  but  that  I  loved  Rome  more.  Had  you 
rather  Caesar  were  living,  and  die  all  slaves ;  than  that  Caesar  were 
dead,  to  live  all  free  men  ?  As  Caesar  loved  me,  I  weep  for  him ;  as 
he  was  fortunate,  I  rejoice  at  it ;  as  he  was  valiant,  I  honor  him : 
but,  as  he  was  ambitious,  I  slew  him  :  There  are  tears,  for  his  love ; 
joy,  for  his  fortune  ;  honor,  for  his  valor ;  and  death,  for  his  ambition. 
Who  is  here  so  base,  that  would  be  a  bondman  ?  If  any,  speak ;  for 
him  have  I  offended.  Who  is  here  so  rude,  that  would  not  be  a 
Roman  ?  If  any,  speak  ;  for  him  have  I  offended.  Who  is  here  so 
vile,  that  will  not  love  his  country  ?  If  any,  speak  ;  for  him  have  I 
offended.  I  pause  for  a  reply. 

Cit.  None,  Brutus,  none.  [Several  speaking  at  once. 

Bru.  Then  none  have  I  offended.     I  have  done  no  more  to  Caesar, 
tnan  you  should  do  to  Brutus.     The  question  of  his  death  is  enrolled 
in  the  Capitol ;  his  glory  not  extenuated,  wherein  he  was  worthy 
nor  his  offences  enforced,  for  which  he  suffered  death. 

Enter  ANTONY  and  others,  with  CJESAR'S  body. 
Here  comes  his  body,  mourn'd  by  Mark  Antony ;  who,  though  he 
had  no  hand  in  his  death,  shall  receive  the  benefit  of  his  dying,  a 


JULIUS    C^SAR.  »  341 

place  in  the  commonwealth ;  As  which  of  you  shall  not  ?  With  this 
I  depart ;  That,  as  I  slew  my  best  lover  for  the  good  of  Rome,  I  have 
the  same  dagger  for  myself,  when  it  shall  please  my  country  to  need 
my  death. 

Cit.  Live,  Brutus,  live  !  live  ! 

1st  Cit.  Bring  him  with  triumph  home  unto  his  house. 

2nd  Cit.  Give  him  a  statue  with  his  ancestors. 

3rd  Cit.  Let  him  be  Caesar. 

4th  Cit.  Caesar's  better  parts 

Shall  now  be  crown'd  in  Brutus. 

1st  Cit.  We'll  bring*  him  to  his  house  with  shouts  and  clamors. 

Bru.  My  countrymen, 

2nd  Cit.  Peace ;  silence  !    Brutus  speaks. 

1st  Cit.  Peace,  ho! 

Bru.  Good  countrymen,  let  me  depart  alone, 
And,  for  my  sake,  stay  here  with  Antony : 
Do  grace  to  Caesar's  corpse,  and  grace  his  speech 
Tending  to  Caesar's  glories ;  which  Mark  Antony. 
By  our  permission,  is  allow'd  to  make. 
I  do  entreat  you,  not  a  man  depart, 
Save  I  alone,  till  Antony  have  spoke.  [Exit. 

1st  Cit.  Stay,  ho !  and  let  us  hear  Mark  Antony. 


3rd  Cit.  Let  him  go  up  into  the  public  chair ; 

oble  Antony,  go  up. 
Ant.  For  Brutus'  sake,  I  am  beholden  to  you. 


We'll  hear  him  :  Noble  Antony, 


4th  Cit.  What  does  he  say  of  Brutus  ? 

3rd  Cit.  He  says,  for  Brutus1  sake, 

He  finds  himself  beholden  to  us  all. 

4th  Cit.  'Twere  best  he  speak  no  harm  of  Brutus  here. 

1st  Cit.  Tils  Caesar  was  a  tyrant. 

3rd  Cit.  Nay,  that's  certain : 

We  are  bless'd,  that  Rome  is  rid  of  him. 

2nd  Cit.  Peace ;  let  us  hear  what  Antony  can  say. 

Ant.  You  gentle  Romans, 

Cit.  Peace,  ho !  let  us  hear  him. 

Ant.  Friends,  Romans,  countrymen,  lend  me  your  ears ; 
I  come  to  bury  Caesar,  not  to  praise  him. 
The  evil  that  men  do,  lives  after  them  ; 
The  good  is  oft  interred  with  their  bones ; 
So  let  it  be  with  Caesar.     The  noble  Brutus 
Hath  told  you,  Caesar  was  ambitious  : 
If  it  were  so,  it  was  a  grievous  fault ; 
And  grievously  hath  Caesar  answer'd  it. 
Here,  under  leave  of  Brutus,  and  the  rest, 
(For  Brutus  is  an  honorable  man  ; 
So  are  they  all,  all  honorable  men  ;) 
Come  I  to  speak  in  Caesar's  funeral. 
He  was  my  friend,  faithful  and  just  to  me : 
But  Brutus  says,  he  was  ambitious  ; 


342  SHAKSPEARIAN   READER. 

* 

And  Brutus  is  an  honorable  man. 
He  hath  brought  many  captives  home  to  Rome, 
Whose  ransoms  did  the  general  coffers  fill : 
Did  this  in  Caesar  seem  ambitious  ? 
When  that  the  poor  have  cried.  Caesar  hath  wept  l 
Ambition  should  be  made  of  sterner  stuff; 
Yet  Brutus  says,  he  was  ambitious ; 
And  Brutus  is  an  honorable  man. 
You  all  did  see,  that  on  the  Lupercal, 
I  thrice  presented  him  a  kingly  crown, 
Which  he  did  thrice  refuse.     Was  this  ambition  ? 
Yet  Brutus  says,  he  was  ambitious ; 
And,  sure,  he  is  an  honorable  man. 
I  speak  not  to  disprove  what  Brutus  spoke, 
But  here  I  am  to  speak  what  I  do  know. 
You  all  did  love  him  once  ;  not  without  cause  ; 
What  cause  withholds  you  then  to  mourn  for  him  ? 

0  judgment,  thou  art  fled  to  brutish  beasts. 

And  men  have  lost  their  reason  ! — Bear  with  me  ; 
My  heart  is  in  the  coffin  there  with  Caesar, 
And  I  must  pause  till  it  come  back  to  me. 

1st  Cit.  Methinks,  there  is  much  reason  in  his  sayings. 

2nd  Cit.  If  thou  consider  rightly  of  the  matter, 
Caesar  has  had  great  wrong. 

3rd  Oil.  Has  he,  masters  ? 

1  fear,  there  will  a  worse  come  in  his  place. 

4th  Cit.  Mark'd  ye  his  words  ?    He  would  not  take  the  crown; 
Therefore,  'tis  certain,  he  was  not  ambitious. 

1st  Cit.  If  it  be  found  so,  some  will  dear  abide  it. 

2nd  Cit.  Poor  soul !  his  eyes  are  red  as  fire  with  weeping. 

3rd  Cit.  There's  not  a  nobler  man  in  Rome,  than  Antony. 

4th  Cit.  Now  mark  him,  he  begins  again  to  speak. 

Ant.  But  yesterday,  the  word  of  Caesar  might 
Have  stood  against  the  world  :  now  lies  he  there, 
And  none  so  poor  to  do  him  reverence. 

0  masters !  if  I  were  dispos'd  to  stir 
Your  hearts  and  minds  to  mutiny  and  rage, 

1  should  do  Brutus  wrong,  and  Cassius  wrong, 
Who,  you  all  know,  are  honorable  men  : 

I  will  not  do  them  wrong ;  I  rather  choose 

To  wrong  the  dead,  to  wrong  myself,  and  you, 

Than  I  will  wrong  such  honorable  men. 

But  here's  a  parchment,  with  the  seal  of  Caesar, 

I  found  it  in  his  closet,  'tis  his  will : 

Let  but  the  commons  hear  this  testament, 

(Which  pardon  me  I  do  not  mean  to  read,) 

And  they  would  go  and  kiss  dead  Caesar's  woands, 

And  dip  their  napkins  in  his  sacred  blood ; 

Yea,  beg  a  hair  of  him  for  memory, 


JULIUS    CJ3SAR.  343 

And,  dying,  mention  it  within  their  wills, 
bequeathing  it,  as  a  rich  legacy, 
Unto  their  issue. 

41  h  Cit.  We'll  hear  the  will :  Read  it,  Mark  Antony. 

Cit.  The  will,  the  will ;  we  will  hear  Caesar's  will. 

Ant.  Have  patience,  gentle  friends,  I  must  not  read  it ; 
It  is  not  meet  you  know  how  Caesar  lov'd  yon. 
You  are  not  wood,  you  are  not  stones,  but  men ; 
And,  being  men,  hearing  the  will  of  Caesar, 
It  will  inflame  you,  it  will  make  you  mad : 
Tis  good  you  know  not  that  you  are  his  heirs ; 
For  if  you  should,  O,  what  would  come  of  it ! 

4th  Cit.  Read  the  will ;  we  will  hear  it,  Anteny ; 
You  shall  read  us  the  will ;  Caesar's  will. 

Ant.  Will  you  be  patient  ?     Will  you  stay  a  while  ? 
I  have  o'ershot  myself,  to  tell  you  of  it. 
I  fear  I  wrong  the  honorable  men, 
Whose  daggers  have  stabb'd  Caesar :  I  do  fear  it. 

4th  Cit.  They  were  traitors  :  Honorable  men  ! 

Cit.  The  will !  the  testament ! 

2nd  Cit.  They  were  villains,  murderers  :  The  will,  read  the  will ! 

Ant.  You  will  compel  me  then  to  read  the  will  ? 
Then  make  a  ring  about  the  corpse  of  Caesar, 
And  let  me  show  you  him  that  made  the  will. 
Shall  I  descend  ?     And  will  you  give  me  leave  ? 

Cit.  Come  down. 

2nd  Cit.  Descend.  [lie  comes  down  from  {he  pulpit. 

3rd  Cit.  You  shall  have  leave. 

4th  Cit.  A  ring  ;  stand  round. 

1st  Cit.  Stand  from  the  hearse,  stand  from  the  body. 

2nd  Cit.  Room  for  Antony ; — most  noble  Antony. 

Ant.  Nay,  press  not  so  upon  me  ;  stand  far  off. 

Cit.  Stand  back  !  room  !  bear  back  ! 

Ant.  If  you  have  tears,  prepare  to  shed  them  now 
You  all  do  know  this  mantle  :  I  remember 
The  first  time  ever  Caesar  put  it  on  ; 
'Twas  on  a  summer's  evening,  in  his  tent ; 
That  day  he  overcame  the  Nervii : — 
Look  !  in  this  place,  ran  Cassius'  dagger  through 
See,  what  a  rent  the  envious  Casca  made : 
Through  this,  the  well-beloved  Brutus  stabb'd ; 
And,  as  he  pluck'd  his  cursed  steel  away, 
Mark  how  the  blood  of  Caesar  follow'd  it ; 
As  rushing  out  of  doors,  to  be  resolv'd 
If  Brutus  so  unkindly  knock'd,  or  no ; 
For  Brutus,  as  you  know,  was  Caesar's  angel : 
Judge,  O  you  gods,  how  dearly  Caesar  lov'd  him  f 
This  was  the  most  unkindest  cut  of  all : 
For  when  the  noble  Caesar  saw  him  stab, 


344  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Ingratitude,  more  strong  than  traitors'  arms, 

Q,uite  vanquish'd  him  :  then  burst  his  mighty  heart ; 

And,  in  his  mantle  muffling  up  his  face, 

Even  at  the  base  of  Pompey's  statue, 

Which  all  the  while  ran  blood,  great  CsBsar  fell. 

O,  what  a  fall  was  there  my  countrymen ! 

Then  I,  and  you,  and  all  of  us  fell  down, 

Whilst  bloody  treason  flourish'd  over  us. 

O,  now  you  weep ;  and,  I  perceive,  you  feel 

The  dint  of  pity :  these  are  gracious  drops. 

Kind  souls,  what  weep  you,  when  you  but  behold 

Our  Caesar's  vesture  wounded  ?     Look  you  here, 

Here  is  himself,  marr'd,  as  you  see,  with  traitors. 

1st  Cll.  O  piteous  spectacle  ! 

2nd  Cit.  O  noble  Causar  ! 

3rd  Cit.  O  woful  day  ! 

4th  Cit.  O  traitors,  villains  ! 

1st  Cit.  O  most  bloody  sight ! 

2nd  Cit.  We  will  be  revenged :  revenge  ;  about, — seek, — burn 
fire, — kill, — sl.iy  ! — let  not  a  traitor  live. 

Ant.  Stay,  countrymen. 

1st  Cit.  Peace  there  : — Hear  the  noble  Antony. 

2nd  Cit.  We'll  hear  him,  we'll  follow  him,  we'll  die  witl  him. 

Ant.  Good  friends,  sweet  friends,  let  me  not  stir  you  up 
To  such  a  sudden  flood  of  mutiny. 
They,  that  have  done  this  deed,  are  honorable  : 
What  private  griefs  they  have,  alas,  I  know  not, 
That  made  them  do't ;  they  are  wise  and  honorable, 
And  will,  no  doubt,  with  reasons  answer  you. 
I  come  not,  friends,  to  steal  away  your  hearts ; 
I  am  no  orator,  as  Brutus  is  : 
But  as  you  know  me  all,  a  plain  blunt  man, 
That  love  my  friend,  and  that  they  know  full  well 
That  gave  me  public  leave  to  speak  of  him. 
For  I  have  neither  wit,  nor  words,  nor  worth. 
Action,  nor  utterance,  nor  the  power  of  speech. 
To  stir  men's  blood  :  I  only  speak  right  on  ; 
I  tell  you  that  which  you  yourselves  do  know  ; 
Show  you  sweet  Ceesar's  wounds,  poor,  poor  dumb  mouthy 
And  bid  them  speak  for  me  :  But  were  I  Brutus 
And  Brutus  Antony,  there  were  an  Antony 
Would  ruffle  up  your  spirits,  and  put  a  tongue 
In  every  wound  of  Caesar,  that  should  move 
The  stones  of  Rome  to  rise  and  mutiny. 

Cit.  We'll  mutiny. 

I  si  Cit.  We'll  burn  the  house  of  Brutus. 

3rd  Cit.  Away  then,  come,  seek  the  conspirators. 

AnL  Yet  hear  me,  countrymen  ;  yet  hear  me  speak. 

Cit.  Peace,  ho  !     Hear  Antony,  most  noble  Antony. 


JULIUS   CJESAK.  345 

Ant.  Why,  friends,  you  go  to  do  you  know  not  what : 
Wherein  hath  Cassar  thus  deserv'd  your  loves  ! 
Alas,  you  know  not — 1  must  tell  you  then : — 
You  have  forgot  the  will  I  told  you  of. 

Cit.  Most  true ;  the  will : — let's  stay  and  hear  the  will. 

Ant.  Here  is  the  will,  and  under  Caesar's  seal. 
To  every  Roman  citizen  he  gives, 
To  every  several  man,  seventy-five  drachmas. 

2nd  Cit.  Most  noble  Caesar  ! — we'll  revenge  his  death. 

3rd  Cit.  O  royal  Caesar  ! 

Ant.  Hear  me  with  patience. 

Cit.  Peace,  ho ! 

Ant.  Moreover,  he  hath  left  you  all  his  walks, 
His  private  arbors,  and  new-planted  orchards, 
On  this  side  Tiber  ;  he  hath  left  them  you, 
And  to  your  heirs  for  ever  ;  common  pleasures, 
To  walk  abroad,  and  recreate  yourselves. 
Here  was  a  Ceesar :  When  comes  such  another  ? 

1st  Cit.  Never,  never :  Come,  away,  away  ; 
We'll  burn  his  body  in  the  holy  place, 
And  with  the  brands  fire  the  traitors'  houses. 
Take  up  the  body.  [Exeunt  Citizens  with  the  lody* 

Ant.  Now  let  it  work  ;  Mischief ;  thou  art  afoot, 
Take  thou  what  course  thou  wilt ! — How  now,  fellow  ? 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Serv.  Sir,  Octavius  is  already  come  to  Rome. 

Ant.  Where  is  he  ? 

Serv.  He  and  Lepidus  are  at  Caesar's  house. 

Ant.  And  thither  will  I  straight  to  visit  him : 
He  comes  upon  a  wish. '  Fortune  is  merry, 
And  in  this  mood  will  give  us  any  thing. 

Serv.  I  heard  him  say,  Brutus  and  Cassius 
Are  rid  like  madmen  through  the  gates  of  Romfi. 

Ant.  Belike,  they  had  some  notice  of  the  people, 
How  I  "had  moved  them.     Bring  me  to  Octavius.  [Exeunt* 


ACT  IV. 

Antony,  Octavius,  and  Lepidus,  assume  the  government  of  Rome.    They  are  Opposed 
by  Brutus  and  Cassius,  who  levy  powers  to  make  war  on  the  triumvirate. 

SCENE. — Before  Brutus'  Tent,  in  the  Camp  near  Sardis. 

Drum. — Enter  BRUTUS,  LUCILIUS,  Lucius,  and  Soldiers :  TITINIUS 
and  PINDARUS  meeting  them. 

Bru.  Stand  here. 

Luc.  Give  the  word,  ho  !  and  stand. 


346  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Bru.  What  now,  Lucilius  ?  is  Cassius  near  ? 

Luc.  He  is  at  hand ;  and  Pindarus  is  come 
To  do  you  salutation  from  his  master. 

[PINDARUS  gives  a  letter  to  BRUTUS 

Bru.  He  greets  me  well. — Your  master,  Pindarus, 
In  his  own  change,  or  by  ill  officers, 
Hath  given  me  some  worthy  cause  to  wish 
Things  done,  undone  :  but,  if  he  be  at  hand, 
I  shall  be  satisfied. 

Pin.  I  do  not  doubt, 

"But  that  my  noble  master  will  appear 
Such  as  he  is,  full  of  regard,  and  honor. 

Bru.  He  is  not  doubted. — A  word,  Lucilius  •, 
How  he  receiv'd  you,  let  me  be  resolv'd. 

Luc.  With  courtesy,  and  with  respect  enough ; 
But  not  with  such  familiar  instances, 
Nor  with  such  free  and  friendly  conference, 
As  he  hath  used  of  old. 

Bru.  Thou  hast  describ'd 

A  hot  friend  cooling :  Ever  note,  Lucilius. 
When  love  begins  to  sicken  and  decay, 
It  useth  an  enforced  ceremony. 
There  are  no  tricks  in  plain  and  simple  faith : 
But  hollow  men,  like  horses  hot  at  hand, 
Make  gallant  show  and  promise  of  their  mettle ; 
But  when  they  should  endure  the  bloody  spur, 
They  fall  their  crests,  and,  like  deceitful  jades, 
Sink  in  the  trial.     Comes  his  army  on  ? 

Luc.     They  mean  this  night  in  Sardis  to  be  quarter'd ; 
The  greater  part,  the  horse  in  general, 
Are  come  with  Cassius.  [Ma*ch  within 

Bru.  Hark,  he  is  arriv'd  : — 

March  gently  on  to  meet  him. 

Enter  CASSIUS,  and  Soldiers. 

Cas.  Stand,  ho! 

Bru.  Stand,  ho  !  Speak  the  word  along. 

Within.  Stand. 

Within.  Stand. 

Within.  Stand. 

Cas.  Most  noble  brother,  you  have  done  me  wrong. 

Bru.  Judge  me,  you  gods  !     Wrong  I  mine  enemies  ? 
And,  if  not  so,  how  should  I  wrong  a  brother  ? 

Cas.  Brutus,  this  sober  form  of  yours  hides  wrongs  ; 
And  when  you  do  them 

Bru.  Cassius,  be  content, 

Speak  your  griefs  softly, — I  do  know  you  well : — 
Before  the  eyes  of  both  our  armies  here, 
Which  should  perceive  nothing  but  love  from  us, 


JULIUS    C-ESAR.  347 

Let  us  not  wrangle  :  Bid  them  move  away , 
Then  in  my  tent,  Cassius,  enlarge  your  griefs, 
And  I  will  give  you  audience. 

Cas.  Pindarus, 

Bid  our  commanders  lead  their  charges  off 
A  little  from  this  ground. 

Bru.  Lucilius,  do  you  the  like  ;  and  let  no  man 
Come  to  our  tent,  till  we  have  done  our  conference. 
Let  Lucius  and  Titinius  guard  our  door.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— Within  the  Tent  of  Brutus. 

Lucius  and  Titinius  at  some  distance  from  it. 

Enter  BRUTUS  and  CASSIUS. 

Cas.  That  you  have  wrong'd  me  doth  appear  in  this : 
You  have  condemn'd  and  noted  Lucius  Pella, 
For  taking  bribes  here  of  the  Sardians  ; 
Wherein,  my  letters,  praying  on  his  side, 
Because  I  knew  the  man,  were  slighted  off. 

Bru,  You  wrong'd  yourself,  to  write  in  such  a  case. 

Cas.  In  such  a  time  as  this,  it  is  not  meet 
That  every  nice  offence  should  bear  his  comment. 

Bru.  Let  me  tell  you,  Cassius,  you  yourself 
Are  much  condemn'd  to  have  an  itching  palm  ; 
To  sell  and  mart  your  offices  for  gold, 
To  undeservers. 

Cas.  I  an  itching  palm  ? 

You  know,  that  you  are  Brutus  that  speak  this, 
Or,  by  the  gods,  this  speech  were  else  your  last. 

Bru.  The  name  of  Cassius  honors  this  corruption, 
And  chastisement  doth  therefore  hide  his  head. 

Cas.  Chastisement ! 

Bru.  Remember  March,  the  ides  of  March  remember. 
Did  not  great  Julius  bleed  for  justice'  sake  7 
What  viUain  touch'd  his  body,  that  did  stab, 
And  not  for  justice  ?     What,  shall  one  of  us, 
That  struck  the  foremost  man  of  all  this  world, 
But  for  supporting  robbers ;  shall  we  now 
Contaminate  our  fingers  with  base  bribes  ? 
And  sell  the  mighty  space  of  our  large  honors, 
For  so  much  trash,  as  may  be  grasped  thus  ? — 
I  had  rather  be  a  dog,  and  bay  the  moon, 
Than  such  a  Roman. 

Cas.  Brutus,  bay  not  me, 

I'll  not  endure  it :  you  forget  yourself, 
To  hedge  me  in ;  I  am  a  soldier,  I, 
Older  in  practice,  abler  than  yourself 
To  make  conditions. 


348  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

BriL  Go  to  ;  you're  not,  Cassius. 

Cas.  I  am. 

Bru.  I  say,  you  are  not. 

Cas.  Urge  me  no  more,  I  shall  forget  myself; 
Have  mind  upon  your  health,  tempt  me  no  further. 

Bru.  Away,  slight  man  ! 

Cas.  Is't  possible  ? 

Bru.  Hear  me,  for  I  will  speak. 
Must  I  give  way  and  room  to  your  rash  choler  ? 
Shall  I  be  frighted,  when  a  madman  stares  ? 

Cas.  O  gods  !  ye  gods  !  must  I  endure  all  this  ? 

Bru.  All  this  ?  ay,  and  more  :  Fret  till  your  proud  heart  break 
Go,  show  your  slaves  how  choleric  you  are, 
And  make  your  bondmen  tremble.     Must  I  budge  ? 
Must  I  observe  you  ?     Must  I  stand  and  crouch 
Under  your  testy  humor  ?     By  the  gods, 
You  shall  digest  the  venom  of  your  spleen, 
Though  it*do  split  you  ;  for,  from  this  day  forth, 
I'll  use  you  for  my  mirth,  yea,  for  my  laughter, 
When  you  are  waspish. 

Cas.  Is  it  come  to  this  ? 

Bru.  You  say,  you  are  a  better  soldier : 
Let  it  appear  so  ;  make  your  vaunting  true, 
And  it  shall  please  me  well :  For  mine  own  part, 
I  shall  be  glad  to  learn  of  noble  men. 

Cas.  You  wrong  me  every  way ;  you  wrong  me,  Brutus ; 
I  said,  an  elder  soldier,  not  a  better  : 
Did  I  say,  better  ? 

Bru.  If  you  did,  I  care  not 

Cas.  When  Caesar  liv'd,  he  durst  not  thus  have  moved  n». 

Bru.  Peace,  peace  ;  you  durst  not  so  have  tempted  him 

Cas.  I  durst  not  ? 

Bru.  No. 

Cas.  W.iat  ?  durst  n*t  tempt  him  ? 

Bru.  For  your  life,  you  durst  not. 

Cas.  Do  not  presume  too  much  upon  my  love, 
I  may  do  that  I  shall  be  sorry  for. 

Bru.  You  have  done  that  you  should  be  sorry  for. 
There  is  no  terror,  Cassius,  in  your  threats ; 
For  I  am  arm'd  so  strong  in  honesty, 
That  they  pass  by  me  as  the  idle  wind, 
Which  I  respect  not.     I  did  send  to  you 
For  certain  sums  of  gold,  which  you  deny'd  me  ; — 
For  I  can  raise  no  money  by  vile  means : 
By  heaven,  I  had  rather  coin  my  heart, 
And  drop  my  blood  for  drachmas,  than  to  wring 
From  the  hard  hands  of  peasants  their  vile  trasn, 
By  any  indirection.     I  did  send 
To  you  for  gold  to  pay  my  legions, 


JULIUS    C'^ISAR.  349 

Which  you  denied  me  :  Was  that  done  like  Cassius  7 

Should  I  have  answer'd  Caius  Cassius  so  ? 

When  Marcus  Brutus  grows  so  covetous, 

To  lock  such  rascal  counters  from  his  friends, 

Be  ready,  gods,  with  all  your  thunderbolts, 

Dash  him  to  pieces  ! 

Cas.  I  denied  you  not. 

Bru.  You  did. 

Cas.  I  did  not : — he  was  but  a  fool, 

That  brought  my  answer  back. — Brutus  hath  riv'd  my  heart ; 
A  friend  should  bear  his  friend's  infirmities ; 
But  Brutus  makes  mine  greater  than  they  are. 

Bru.  I  do  not,  till  you  practise  them  on  me. 

Cas.  You  love  me  not. 

Bru.  I  do  not  like  your  faults, 

Cas.  A  friendly  eye  could  never  see  such  faults. 

Bru.  A  flatterer's  would  not,  though  they  do  appear 
\s  huge  as  high  Olympus. 

Cas.  Come,  Antony,  and  young  Octavius,  come, 
Revenge  'yourselves  alone  on  Cassius, 
For  Cassius  is  aweary  of  the  world : 
Hated  by  one  he  loves ;  brav'd  by  his  brother ; 
Check'd  like  a  bondman  ;  all  his  faults  observ'd, 
Set  in  a  note-book,  learn'd  and  conn'd  by  rote, 
To  cast  into  my  teeth.     O,  I  could  weep 
My  spirit  from  mine  eyes  ! — There  is  my  dagger, 
And  here  my  naked  breast ;  within,  a  heart 
Dearer  than  Plutus'  mine,  richer  than  gold : 
If  that  thou  be'st  a  Roman,  take  it  forth  ; 
I,  that  denied  thee  gold,  will  give  my  heart : 
Strike,  as  thou  didst  at  Caesar ;  for,  I  know, 
When  thou  didst  hate  him  worst,  thou  lov'dst  him  better 
Than  ever  thou  lov'dst  Cassius. 

Bru.  Sheathe  your  dagger: 

Be  angry  when  you  will,  it  shall  have  scope  ; 
Do  what  you  will,  dishonor  shall  be  humor. 
O  Cassius,  you  are  yoked  with  a  lamb 
That  carries  anger,  as  the  flint  bears  fire ; 
Who,  much  enforced,  shows  a  hasty  spark, 
And  straight  is  cold  again. 

Cas.  Hath  Cassius  liv'd 

To  be  but  mirth  and  laughter  to  his  Brutus, 
When  grief,  and  blood  ill-temper'd  vexeth  him  ? 

Bru.  When  I  spoke  that,  I  was  ill-temper'd  too. 

Cas.  Do  you  confess  so  much  ?     Give  me  your  hand. 

Bru.  And  my  heart  too. 

Cas.  O  Brutus  !— 

Bru.  What's  the  matter  ? 

Cas.  Have  you  not  love  enough  to  bear  with  me, 


350  SHAKSFEARIAN    READER. 

When  that  rash  humor,  which  my  mother  gave  me, 
Makes  me  forgetful  ? 

Bru.  Yes,  Cassius  ;  and,  henceforth, 

When  you  are  over-earnest  with  your  Brutus, 
He'l)  think  your  mother  chides,  and  leave  you  so. 

Cas.  I  did  not  think,  you  could  have  been  so  angry. 

Bru.  O  Cassius,  I  am  sick  of  many  griefs. 

Cas.  Of  your  philosophy  you  make  no  use, 
If  you  give  place  to  accidental  evils. 

Bru.  No  man  bears  sorrow  better : — Portia  is  dead. 

Cas.  Ha!  Portia! 

Bru.  She  is  dead. 

Cas.  How  scap'd  I  killing,  when  I  cross'd  you  so  ? 

0  insupportable  and  touching  loss  ! — 
Upon  what  sickness  ? 

Bru.  Impatient  of  my  absence ; 

And  grief,  that  young  Octavius  with  Mark  Antony 
Have  made  themselves  so  strong ; — for  with  her  death 
That  tidings  came ; — With  this  she  fell  distract, 
And,  her  attendants  absent,  swallow'd  fire. 

Cas.  And  died  so  ? 

Bru.  Even  so. 

Cas.  O  ye  immortal  gods  ! 

Enter  Lucius,  with  wine  and  tapers. 

Bru.  Speak  no  more  of  her.     Give  me  a  bowl  of  wine. 
In  this  I  bury  all  unkindness,  Cassius.  [D>  ink* 

Cas.  My  heart  is  thirsty  for  that  noble  pledge  : — 
Fill,  Lucius,  till  the  wine  o'erswell  the  cup ; 

1  cannot  drink  to<  much  of  Brutus'  love.  [Drink* 

Re-enter  TITINIUS,  with  MESSALA. 

Bru.  Come  in,  Titinius  :  Welcome,  good  Messala. 
Now  sit  we  close  about  this  taper  here, 
And  call  in  question  our  necessities. 

Cas.  Portia,  art  thou  gone  ? 

Bru.  No  more,  I  pray  you. — 

Messala,  I  have  here  received  letters, 
That  young  Octavius,  and  Mark  Antony, 
Come  down  upon  us  with  a  mighty  power, 
Bending  their  expedition  toward  Philippi. 

Mes.  Myself  have  letters  of  the  self-same  tenor. 

Bru.  With  what  addition  ? 

Mes.  That  by  proscription,  and  bills  of  outlawry, 
Octavius,  Antony,  and  Lepidus, 
Have  put  to  death  an  hundred  senators. 

Bru.  Therein  our  letters  do  not  well  agree ; 
Mine  speak  of  seventy  senators  that  died, 
By  their  proscriptions,  Cioero  being  one. 


JULIUS   CJESAR.  351 

Cas.  Cicero  one  ? 

Mes.  Ay,  Cicero  is  dead, 

And  by  that  order  of  proscription. — 
Had  you  your  letters  from  your  wife,  ray  lord  ? 

Bru.  No,  Messala. 

Mes.  Nor  nothing  in  your  letters  writ  of  her  1 

Bru.  Nothing,  Messala. 

Mes.  That,  methinks,  is  strange. 

Bru.  Why  ask  you  ?    Hear  you  aught  of  her  in  yours  ? 

Mes.  No,  my  lord. 

Bru.  Now,  as  you  are  a  Roman,  tell  me  true. 

Mes.  Then  like  a  Roman  bear  the  truth  I  tell : 
For  certain  she  is  dead,  and  by  strange  manner. 

Bru.  Why,  farewell,  Portia. — We  must  die,  Messala : 
With  meditating  that  she  must  die  once, 
I  have  the  patience  to  endure  it  now. 

Mes.  Even  so  great  men  great  losses  should  endure. 

Cas.  I  have  as  much  of  this  in  art  as  you, 
But  yet  my  nature  could  not  bear  it  so. 

Bru.  Well,  to  our  work  alive.     What  do  you  think 
Of  marching  to  Philippi  presently  ? 

Cas.  I  do  not  think  it  good. 

Bru.  Your  reason. 

Cas.  This  it  is ; 

}Tis  better,  that  the  enemy  seek  us  : 
So  shall  he  waste  his  means,  weary  his  soldiers, 
Doing  himself  offence  ;  whilst  we,"  lying  still, 
Are  full  of  rest,  defence,  and  nimbleness. 

Bru.  Good  reasons  must,  of  force,  give  place  to  better. 
The  people,  'twixt  Philippi  and  this  ground, 
Do  stand  but  in  a  forc'd  affection ; 
For  they  have  grudg'd  us  contribution  : 
The  enemy,  marching  along  by  them, 
By  them  shall  make  a  fuller  number  up, 
Come  on  refresh'd,  new-added,  and  encouraged ; 
From  which  advantage  shall  we  cut  him  on\ 
If  at  Philippi  we  do  face  him  there, 
These  people  at  our  back. 

Cas.  Hear  me,  good  brother. 

Bru.  Under  your  pardon. — You  must  note  beside, 
That  we  have  tried  the  utmost  of  our  friends, 
Our  legions  are  brim-full,  our  cause  is  ripe : 
The  enemy  increaseth  every  day, 
We,  at  the  height,  are  ready  to  decline. 
There  is  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  men, 
Which,  taken  at  the  flood,  leads  on  to  fortune : 
Omitted,  all  the  voyage  of  their  life 
Is  bound  in  shallows,  and  in  miseries. 
On  such  a  full  sea  are  we  now  afloat, 


S52  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

And  we  must  take  the  current  when  it  serves, 
Or  lose  our  ventures. 

Cas.  Then,  with  your  will,  go  on : 

We'll  along  ourselves,  and  meet  them  at  Philippi. 

Bru.  The  deep  of  night  is  crept  upon  our  talk, 
And  nature  must  obey  necessity ; 
Which  we  will  niggard  with  a  little  rest. 
There  Is  no  more  to  say  ? 

Cas.  No  more.     Good  night ; 

Early  to-morrow  will  we  rise,  and  hence. 

Bru.  Lucius,  my  gown. — [Exit  Lucius.] — Farewell,  goal  Mes« 

sala ; — 

Good  night,  Titinius. — Noble,  noble  Cassius, 
Good  night,  and  good  repose. 

Cas.  O  my  dear  brother  ! 

This  was  an  ill  beginning  of  the  night : 
Never  come  such  division  'tween  our  souls  ! 
Let  it  not,  Brutus. 

Bru.  Every  thing  is  well. 

Cas.  Good  night,  my  lord. 

Bru.  Good  night,  good  brother. 

Tit.  Mes,  Good  night,  lord  Brutus.- 

Bru.  Farewell,  every  one. 

[Exeunt  CASSIUS,  TITINIUS,  and  MESS  ALA. 

Re-enter  Lucius,  with  the  gown. 

Give  me  the  gown.     Where  is  thy  instrument  ? 

Luc.  Here  in  the  tent. 

Bru.  What,  thou  speak'st  drowsily  ? 

Poor  knave,  I  blame  thee  not ;  thou  art  o'er-watch'd. 
Call  Claudius,  and  some  other  of  my  men  ; 
I'll  have  them  sleep  on  cushions  in  my  tent. 

Luc.  Varro,  and  Claudius  ! 

Enter  VARRO,  and  CLAUDIUS. 

Var.  Calls  my  lord? 

Bru.  I  pray  you,  sirs,  lie  in  my  tent,  and  sleep  ; 
It  may  be,  I  shall  raise  you  by  and  by 
On  business  to  my  brother  Cassius. 

Var.  So  please  you,  we  will  stand,  and  watch  your  pleasure. 

Bru.  I  will  not  have  it  so :  lie  down,  good  sirs  ; 
It  may  be,  I  shall  otherwise  bethink  me. 
Look,  Lucius,  here's  the  book  I  sought  for  so : 
I  put  it  in  the  pocket  of  my  gown.  [Servants  lie  down, 

Luc.  I  was  sure,  your  lordship  did  not  give  it  me. 

Bru.  Bear  with  mo,  good  boy,  I  am  much  forgetful. 
Canst  thou  hold  up  thy  heavy  eyes  awhile, 
And  touch  thy  instrument  a  strain  or  two  ? 

Luc.  Ay,  my  lord,  an  it  please  you. 


JULIUS    C^SAR.  353 

Bru.  It  does,  my  boy : 

1  trouble  thee  too  much,  but  thou  ar£  willing. 

Luc.  It  is  my  duty,  sir. 

Bru.  I  should  not  urge  thy  duty  past  thy  might ; 
I  know,  young  bloods  look  for  a  time  of  rest. 

Luc.  I  have  slept,  my  lord,  already. 

Bru.  It  is  well  done  ;  and  thou  shalt  sleep  again ; 
I  will  not  hold  thee  long :  if  I  do  live, 

I  will  be  good  to  thee.  .[Music,  and  a  song. 

This  is  a  sleepy  tune  : — O  murd'rous  slumber  !   — 
Lay'st  thou  thy  leaden  mace  upon  my  boy, 
That  plays  thee  music  ? — Gentle  knave,  good  night ; 
I  will  not  do  thee  so  much  wrong  to  wake  thee. 
If  thou  dost  nod,  thou  break'st  thy  instrument ; 
I'll  take  it  from  thee :  and,  good  boy,  good  night. 
Let  me  see,  let  me  see  :— Is  not  the  leaf  turn'd  down, 
Where  I  left  reading  ?     Here  it  is,  I  think.  [He  sits  down. 

Enter  the  Ghost  of  CJESAR. 

How  ill  this  taper  burns  ! — Ha  !  who  comes  here  ? 
I  think,  it  is  the  weakness  of  mine  eyes, 
That  shapes  this  monstrous  apparition. 
It  comes  upon  me  : — Art  thou  any  thing  ? 
Art  thou  some  god,  some  angel,  or  some  devil, 
That  niak'st  my  blood  cold,  and  my  hair  to  stare  ? 
Speak  to  me,  what  thou  art. 

'Ghost.  Thy  evil  spirit,  Brutus. 

Bru.  Why  com'st  thou  ? 

Ghost.  To  tell  thee,  thou  shalt  see  me  at  Philippi. 

Bru.  Well; 
Then  I  shall  see  thee  again  ? 

Ghost.  Ay,  at  Philippi.  [Ghost  vanishes, 

Bru.  Why,  I  shall  see  thee  at  Philippi  then. — 
Now  I  have  taken  heart,  thou  vanishest : 
III  spirit,  I  would  hold  more  talk  with  thee. — 
Boy  !  Lucius  ! — Varro  !  Claudius  !     Sirs,  awake  ! 
Claudius ! 

Luc.  The  strings,  my  lord,  are  false. 

Bru.  He  thinks,  he  still  is  at  his  instrument.— 
Lucius,  awake. 

Luc.  My  lord ! 

Bru.  Didst  thou  dream,  Lucius,  that  thou  so  cry'dst  out  ? 

Luc.  My  lord,  I  do  not  know  that  I  did  cry. 

Bru.  Yes,  that  thou  didst :  Didst  thou  see  any  tiling  1 

Luc.  Nothing,  my  lord. 

Bru.  Sleep  again,  Lucius. — Sirrah,  Claudius  ! 
Fellow  thou !  awake. 

Var.  My  lord. 

Clau.  My  lord. 


354  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Bru.  Why  did  you  so  cry  out,  sirs,  in  your  sleop  ? 

"Far.  Clau.  Did  we,  my  lord  ? 

Bru.  *    Ay,  saw  you  any  thing  ? 

Var.     No,  my  lord,  I  saw  nothing. 

Clau.  Nor  I,  my  lord. 

Bru.  Go,  and  commend  me  to  my  brother  Cassius  ; 
Bid  him  set  on  his  powers  betimes  before, 
And  we  will  follow. 

Var.  Clau.  It  shal]  be  done,  my  lord.  [Exeunt. 

ACT  V. 

Tlie  fifth  Act  is  occupied  with  the  battle  of  Philippi,  the  defeat  and  death  of  Brutui 
and  Cassius.  They  perish  by  their  own  hands.  The  Drama  ends  with  the  followiag 
eulogium  on  Brutus,  by  Antony  and  Octavius. 

Ant.  This  was  the  noblest  Roman  of  them  all : 
All  the  conspirators,  save  only  he, 
Did  that  they  did  in  envy  of  great  Caesar ; 
He,  only,  in'a  general  honest  thought, 
And  common  good  to  all,  made  one  of  them. 
His  life  was  gentle ;  and  the  elements 
So  mix'd  in  him,  that  Nature  might  stand  up, 
And  say  to  all  the  world,  This  was  a  man ! 

Oct.  According  to  his  virtue  let  us  use  him, 
With  all  respect,  and  rites  of  burial. 
Within  my  tent  his  bones  to-night  shall  lie. 
Most  like  a  soldier,  order'd  honorably. — 
So,  call  the  field  to  rest :  and  let's  away, 
To  part  the  glories  of  this  happy  day.  [Exeunt 


TWELFTH-NIGHT: 

OR, 

WHAT    YOU    WILL. 


Shakyjenre  appears  to  have  invariably  sought  for  the  originals  of  his  plots  from 
sources  within  his  reach.— The  Italian  novelists  of  his  period  furnished  ample  materia.s  for 
his  purpose,  but  although  there  are  traces  to  be  found  in  the  present  Comedy,  of  incidents, 
which  are  evidently  borrowed  from  these  sources,  yet  even  the  industrious  and  acute  re- 
searches of  the  critics  cannot  distinctly  trace  out  the  precise  authorities,  to  which  the  Poet  is 
indebted  for  the  groundwork  of  this  delightful  Comedy^ 

There  is  in  this  Drama,  an  under  plot, — skilfully  interwoven  into  the  main  subject,  yet, 
in  no  degree  necessary  to  the  cnief  action  of  the  Play.  The  nature  of  our  design,  has  in- 
duced the  rejection  of  the  comic  incidents,  which  form  the  minor  plot,  so  that  we  might 
incorporate  into  our  selections,  the  entire  main  story,  with  all  its  charming  beauties  of 
graceful  and  tou'tiing  Poetry. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 

ORSINO,  Duke  of  Illyria. 

SEBASTIAN,  a  young  gentleman,  brother  to  Viola. 

ANTONIO,  a  sea  captain,  friend  to  Sebastian. 

A  sea  captain,  friend  to  Viola. 

VALENTINE,  CURIO,  gentlemen  attending  on  the  Dulce. 

Sir  TOBY  BELCH,  uncle  of  Olivia. 

Sir  ANDREW  AGUE-CHEEK. 

MALVOLIO,  steward  to  Olivia. 

FABIAN,  Clown,  servants  to  Olivia. 

OLIVIA,  a  rich  Countess. 
VIOLA,  in  love  with  the  Duke. 
MARIA,  Olivia's  woman. 

Lords,  Priests,  Sailors,  Officers,  Musicians,  and  other  Attendants. 
SCENE. — A  City  in  ILLYRIA  ;  and  the  Sea-coast  near  it. 


356  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I.— An  Apartment  in  ike  Duke's  Palace 
Enter  DUKE,  CURIO,  Lords  ;  Musicians  attending. 

Duke.  If  music  be  the  food  of  love,  play  on, 
Give  me  excess  of  it ;  that,  surfeiting, 

The  appetite  may  sicken,  and  so  die. 

That  strain  again  ; — it  had  a  dying  fall : 
O,  it  came  o'er  my  ear  like  the  sweet  south, 
That  breathes  upon  a  bank  of  violets,  , 

Stealing,  and  giving  odor. — Enough  ;  no  more  ; 
'Tis  not  so  sweet  now,  as  it  was  before. 
O  spirit  of  love,  how  quick  and  fresh  art  thou ! 
That,  notwithstanding  thy  capacity 
Receiveth  as  the  sea,  nought  enters  there, 
Of  what  validity  and  pitch  soever, 
But  falls  into  abatement  and  low  price, 
Even  in  a  minute  !  so  full  of  shapes  is  fancy, 
That  it  alone  is  high-fantastical. 

Cur.  Will  you  go  hunt,  my  lord  ? 

Duke.  What,  Curio  ? 

Cur.  The  hart 

Duke.  Why,  so  I  do,  the  noblest  that  I  have : 
O  when  mine  eyes  did  see  Olivia  first, 
Methought,  she  purg'd  the  air  of  pestilence  ; 
That  instant  was  I  turn'd  into  a  hart ; 
And  my  desires,  like  fell  and  cruel  hounds, 
E'er  since  pursue  me. — How  now  ?  what  news  from  her  ? 

Enter  VALENTINE. 

Val  So  please  my  lord,  I  might  not  be  admitted, 
But  from  her  handmaid  do  return  this  answer : 
The  element  itself,  till  seven  years'  heat. 
Shall  not  behold  her  face  at  ample  view ; 
But,  like  a  cloistress,  she  will  veiled  walk, 
And  water  once  a  day  her  chamber  round 
With  eye-offending  brine  :  all  this,  to  season 
A  brother's  dead  love,  which  she  would  keep  fresh, 
And  lasting,  in  her  sad  remembrance. 

Duke.  O,  she,  that  hath  a  heart  of  that  fine  frame, 
To  pay  this  debt  of  love  but  to  a  brother, 
How  will  she  love,  when  the  rich,  golden  shaft, 
Hath  killM  the  flock  of  all  affections  else 
That  live  in  her !  when  liver,  brain,  and  heart, 
These  sovereign  thrones,  are  all  supplied,  and  fill'd, 
(Her  sweet  perfections,)  with  one  self  king  ! — 


TWELFTH-NIGHT.  357 

Away  before  r.»o  to  sweet  beds  of  flowers  ; 
Love-thought?  lie  rich,  when  canopied  with  bowers. 

SCENE  II. — The  Sea-coast. 
Enter  VIOLA,  Captain,  and  Sailors. 

Vio.  Wli-jA  country,  friends,  is  this  1 

Cap.  Illyria,  lady. 

Vio.  And  what  should  I  do  in  Illyria  1 
My  brother  he  is  in  Elysium. 
Perch?.rce,  he  is  not  drown'd. — What  think  you,  sailors  ? 

Cap.  It  is  perchance,  that  you  yourself  were  saved. 

Vio.  O  my  poor  brother  !  and  so,  perchance,  may  he  be. 

Cf.p.  True,  madam  :  and,  to  comfort  you  with  chance, 
Assure  yourself,  after  our  ship  did  split, 
W'.J'jn  you,  and  that  poor  number  saved  with  you, 
Hung  on  our  driving  boat,  I  saw  your  brother, 
Most  provident  in  peril,  bind  himself 
(Courage  and  hope  both  teaching  him  the  practice) 
To  a  strong  mast,  that  lived  upon  the  sea ; 
Where,  like  Arion  on  the  dolphin's  back, 
X  saw  him  hold  acquaintance  with  the  waves, 
So  long  as  I  could  see. 

Vio.  For  saying  so,  there's  gold  : 

Mine  own  escape  unfoldeth  to  my  hope, 
Whereto  thy  speech  serves  for  authority, 
The  like  of'  him.     Know'st  thon  this  country  ? 

Cap.  Ay,  madam,  well ;  for  I  was  bred  and  born, 
Not  three  hours'  travel  from  this  very  place. 

Vio.  Who  governs  here  ? 

Cap.  A  noble  duke,  in  nature, 

As  in  his  name. 

Vio.  What  is  his  name  ? 

Cap.  Orsino. 

Vio.  Orsino  !     I  have  heard  my  father  name  him: 
He  was  a  bachelor  then. 

Cap.  And  so  is  now, 

Or  was  so  very  late :  for  but  a  month 
Ago  I  went  from  hence ;  and  then  'twas  fresh 
In  murmur,  (as,  you  know,  what  great  ones  do, 
The  less  will  prattle  of,)  that  he  did  seek 
The  love  of  fair  Olivia. 

Vio.  What's  she  ? 

Cap.  A  virtuous  maid,  the  daughter  of  a  count 
That  died  some  twelvemonth  since  ;  then  leaving  hor 
In  the  protection  of  his  son,  her  brother, 
Who  shortly  also  died :  for  whose  dear  love, 
They  say,  she  hath  abjured  the  company 
And  sight  of  men. 


358  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Vio.  O,  that  I  served  that  lady : 

And  might  not  be  delivered  to  the  world, 
Till  I  had  made  mine  own  occasion  mellow, 
What  my  estate  is. 

Cap.  That  were  hard  to  compass  ; 

Because  she  will  .admit  no  kind  of  suit, 
No,  not  the  duke's. 

Vio.  There  is  a  fair  behavior  in  thce,  captain ; 
And  though  that  nature  with  a  beauteous  wall 
Doth  oft  close  in  pollution,  yet  of  thee 
I  will  believe,  thou  hast  a  mind  that  suits 
With  this  thy  fair  and  outward  character. 
I  pray  thee,  and  I'll  pay  thee  bounteously, 
Conceal  me  what  I  am  ;  and  be  my  aid 
For  such  disguise  as,  haply,  shall  become 
The  form  of  my  intent.     I'll  serve  this  duke  ; 
Thou  shalt  present  me  as  a  page  to  him, 
It  may  be  worth  thy  pains ;  for  I  can  sing, 
And  speak  to  him  in  many  sorts  of  music, 
That  will  allow  me  very  worth  his  service. 
What  else  may  hap,  to  time  I  will  commit ; 
Only  shape  thou  thy  silence  to  my  wit. 

Cap.  Be  thou  his  page,  and  I  your  mute  will  be  ; 
When  my  tongue  blabs,  then  let  mine  eyes  not  see  ! 

Vio.  I  thank  thee  :  Lead  me  on.  [Exeunt. 

Viola,  having  disguised  herself  in  male  attire,  obtains  the  situation  of  Page,  in  the 
Duke's  household,  under  the  name  of  Cesario. 

A  Room  in  the  Duke's  Palace. 
Enter  VALENTINE,  and  VIOLA  in  man's  attire. 

Val.  If  the  Duke  continue  these  favors  towards  you,  Cesario,  you 
are  like  to  be  much  advanced  ;  he  hath  known  you  but  three  days, 
nnd  already  you  are  no  stranger. 

Vio.  You  either  fear  his  humor,  or  my  negligence,  that  you  call  in 
question  the  continuance  of  his  love :  Is  he  inconstant,  sir,  in  his 
favors  ? 

Val.  No,  believe  me. 

Enter  DUKE,  CURIO,  and  Attendants. 

Vio.  I  thank  you.     Here  comes  the  count. 

Duke.  Who  saw  Cesario,  ho  ? 

Vio.  On  your  attendance,  my  lord ;  here. 

Duke.  Stand  you  awhile  aloof. — Cesario, 
Thou  know'st  no  less  but  all ;  I  have  unclasp'd 
To  thee  the  book  even  of  my  secret  soul : 
Therefore,  good  youth,  address  thy  gait  unto  her; 
Be  not  deny'd  access,  stand  at  her  doors, 


TWELFTH-NIGHT.  359 

And  tell  them,  there  thy  fixed  foot  shall  grow, 
Till  thou  have  audience. 

Vio.  Sure,  my  noble  lord 

If  she  be  so  abandoned  to  her  sorrow 
As  it  is  spoke,  she  never  will  admit  me. 

Duke.  Be  clamorous,  and  leap  all  civil  bounds, 
Rather  than  make  unprofited  return. 

Vio.  Say,  I  do  speak  with  her,  my  lord :  What  then  ? 

Duke.  O,  then  unfold  the  passion  of  my  love ; 
Surprise  her  with  discourse  of  my  dear  faith. 
It  shall  become  thee  well  to  act  my  woes ; 
She  will  attend  it  better  in  thy  youth, 
Than  in  a  nuncio  of  more  grave  aspect. 

Vio.  1  think  not  so,  my  lord. 

Duke.  Dear  lad,  believe  it ; 

For  they  shall  yet  belie  thy  happy  years, 
That  say,  thou  art  a  man :  Diana's  Hp 
Is  not  more  smooth,  and  rubious ;  thy  small  pipe 
Is  as  the  maiden's  organ,  shrill,  and  sound, 
And  all  is  semblative  a  woman's  part. 
I  know,  thy  constellation  is  right  apt 
For  this  affair : — Some  four,  or  five,  attend  him ; 
All,  if  you  will ;  for  I  myself  am  best, 
When  least  in  company : — Prosper  well  in  this, 
And  thou  shalt  live  as  freely  as  thy  lord, 
To  call  his  fortunes  thine. 

Vio.  I'll  do  my  best, 

To  woo  your  lady  :  yet, — [Aside.] — a  barful  strife  : 
Whoe'er  I  woo,  iry self  would  be  his  wife.  [Jb.*eiiTtf. 

The  Lady  Olivia,  attended  by  her  waiting  woman  Maria,  and  Malvolio  her  steward, 
\s  informed  that  a  messenger  from  the  Duke  seeks  her  presence. 

SCENE  V. 

Enter  OLIVIA,  MARIA,  and  MALVOLIO. 

Mar.  Madam,  there  is  at  the  gate  a  young  gentleman,  much 
desires  to  speak  with  you. 

OH.  From  the  count  Orsino,  is  it  ? 

Mar.  I  know  not,  madam  ;  'tis  a  fair  young  man,  and  well  attended. 

OIL  Who  of  my  people  hold  him  in  delay  ? 

Mar.  Sir  Toby,  madam,  your  kinsman. 

,  Oli.  Fetch  him  off,  I  pray  you  ;  he  speaks  nothing  but  madman : 
Fye  on  him  !—  [Exit  MARIA.] — Go  you,  Malvolio :  if  it  be  a  suit 
from  the  count,  I  am  sick  or  not  at  home  ;  what  you  will,  to  dismiss 
it. — [Exit  MALVOLIO.] — Now  you  see,  sir.  how  your  fooling  grows 
old,  and  people  dislike  it. 

Re-enter  MALVOLIO. 
Mai.  Madam,  yond,  young  fellow  swears  he  will  speak  with  you. 


360  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

I  told  him  you  were  sick ;  he  takes  on  him  to  understand  so  much, 
and  therefore  comes  to  speak  with  you :  I  told  him  you  were  asleep ; 
he  seems  to  have  a  fore-knowledge  of  that  too,  and  therefore  comes 
to  speak  with  you.  What  is  to  be  said  to  him,  lady  ?  he's  fortified 
against  any  denial. 

OIL  Tell  him,  he  shall  not  speak  with  me. 

Mai.  He  has  been  told  so ;  and  he  says,  he'll  stand  at  your  door 
like  a  sheriff's  post,  and  be  the  supporter  of  a  bench,  but  he'll  speak 
with  you. 

Oli.  What  kind  of  man  is  he  ? 

Mai.  Why,  of  mankind. 

Oli.  What  manner  of  man  ? 

Mai.  Of  very  ill  manner ;  he'll  speak  with  you,  will  you,  or  no. 

Oli.  Of  what  personage,  and  years,  is  he  ? 

Mai.  Not  yet  old  enough  for  a  man,  nor  young  enough  for  a  hoy 
He  is  very  well-favored,  and  he  speaks  very  shrewishly. 

Oli.  Let  him  approach  :  Call  in  my  gentlewoman. 

Mai.  Gentlewoman,  my  lady  calls.  [Exit 

Re-enter  MARIA. 

Oli.  Give  me  my  veil :  come  throw  it  o'er  my  face  : 
We'll  once  more  hear  Orsino's  embassy. 

Enter  VIOLA. 

Vio.  The  honorable  lady  of  the  house,  which  is  she  ? 

OH.  Speak  to  me,  I  shall  answer  for  her :  Your  will  ? 

Vio.  Most  radiant,  exquisite,  and  unmatchable  beauty,  I  pray  you, 
tell  me,  if  this  be  the  lady  of  the  house,  for  I  never  saw  her :  I  would  be 
loath  to  cast  away  my  speech ;  for,  besides  that  it  is  excellently  well 
penn'd,  I  have  taken  great  pains  to  con  it.  Good  beauties,  let  me  sus- 
tain no  scorn  ;  I  am  very  comptible,*  even  to  the  least  sinister  usage. 

Oli.  Whence  came  you,  sir  ? 

Vio.  I  can  say  little  more  than  I  have  studied,  and  that  question's 
out  of  my  part.  Good  gentle  one,  give  me  modest  assurance,  if  you 
be  the  lady  of  the  house,  that  I  may  proceed  in  my  speech. 

OIL  Are  you  a  comedian  ? 

Vio.  No,  my  profound  heart :  and  yet,  by  the  very  fangs  of  malice, 
I  swear  I  am  not  that  I  play.  Are  you  the  lady  of  the  house  ? 

OIL  If  I  do  not  usurp  myself,  I  am. 

Vio.  Most  certain,  if  you  are  she,  you  do  usurp  yourself;  for  what 
is  yours  to  bestow,  is  not  yours  to  reserve.  But  this  is  from  my 
commission  :  I  will  on  with  my  speech  in  your  praise,  and  then  show 
you  the  heart  of  my  message. 

OIL  Come  to  what  is  important  in't :  I  forgive  you  the  praise. 

Vio.  Alas,  I  took  great  pains  to  study  it,  and  *tis  poetical. 

Oli.  It  is  the  more  like  to  be  feigned  ;  I  pray  you  keep  it  in.  I 
heard  you  were  saucy  at  my  gates;  and  allowed  your  approach, 
•ither  to  wonder  at  you  than  to  hear  you.  If  you' be  not  mad,  bo 

*  Accountable. 


TWELFTH-NIGHT.  361 

gone;  if  you  have  reason  be  brief:  'tis  not  that  time  of  moon  with 
me,  to  make  one  in  so  skipping  a  dialogue.     Tell  me  your  mind. 

Vio.  I  am  a  messenger. 

Oli.  Sure,  you  have  some  hideous  matter  to  deliver,  when  the 
courtesy  of  it  is  so  fearful.  Speak  your  office. 

Vio.  It  alone  concerns  your  ear.  I  bring  no  overture  of  war,  no 
taxation  of  homage  ;  I  holid  the  olive  in  my  hand :  my  words  are  as 
full  of  peace  as  matter. 

Oli.  Yet  you  began  rudely.     What  are  you  ?  what  would  you  ? 

Vio.  The  rudeness  that  hath  appeared  in  me,  have  I  learn'd  from 
my  entertainment.  What  I  am,  and  what  I  would,  are  to  your  ears, 
divinity  ;  to  any  other's,  profanation. 

Oli.  Give  us  the  place  alone :  we  will  hear  this  divinity.— [Exit 
MARIA.] — Now,  sir,  what  is  your  text  ? 

Vio.  Most  sweet  lady, 

Oli:  A  comfortable  doctrine,  and  much  may  be  said  of  it.  Where 
lies  your  text  ? 

Vio.  In  Orsino's  bosom. 

Oli.  In  his  bosom  ?    In  what  chapter  of  his  bosom  ? 

Vio.  To  answer  by  the  method,  in  the  first  of  his  heart. 

Oli.  O,  I  have  read  it ;  it  is  heresy.     Have  you  no  more  to  say  ? 

Vio.  Good  madam,  let  me  see  your  face. 

Oli.  Have  you  any  commission  from  your  lord  to  negotiate  with 
my  face  ?  you  are  now  out  of  your  text :  but  we  will  draw  the  cur- 
tain, and  show  you  the  picture.  Look  you,  sir,  such  a  one  as  I  was 
this  present :  Is't  not  well  done  ?  [  Unveiling. 

Vio.  Excellently  done,  if  nature  did  all. 

Oli.  'Tis  in  grain,  sir ;  'twill  endure  wind  and  weather. 

Vio.  'T'.s  beauty  truly  blent,  whose  red  and  white 
Nature'' s  own  sweet  and  cunning  hand  laid  on : 
Lady,  you  are  the  cruel'st  she  alive, 
If  you"  will  lead  these  graces  to  the  grave, 
And  leave  the  world  no  copy. 

Oli.  O,  sir,  I  will  not  be  so  hard-hearted ;  I  will  give  out  divers 
schedules  of  my  beauty :  It  shall  be  inventoried ;  and  every  particle, 
and  utensil,  labelled  to  my  will.  Were  you  sent  hither  to  praise 
me  ? 

Vio.  I  see  you  what  you  are :  you  are  too  proud  ; 
But,  if  you  were  the  devil,  you  are  fair. 
My  lord  and  master  loves  you ;  O,  such  love 
Could  be  but  recompens'd,  though  you  were  crown'd 
The  nonpareil  of  beauty  ! 

Oli.  How  does  he  love  me  ? 

Vio.  With  adorations,  with  fertile  tears, 
With  groans  that  thunder  love,  with  sighs  of  fire. 

Oli.  Your  lord  does  know  my  mind,  I  cannot  love  him  ; 
Yet  I  suppose  him  virtuous,  know  him  noble, 
Of  great  estate,  of  fresh  and  stainless  youth  ; 
In  voices  well  divulg'd,  free,  learn'd,  and  vacant, 
17 


362  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

And,  in  dimension,  and  the  shape  of  nature, 
A  gracious  person  :  but  yet  I  cannot  love  him  ; 
He  might  have  took  his  answer  long  ago. 

Vio.  If  I  did  love  you  in  my  master's  flame, 
With  such  a  suffering,  such  a  deadly  life, 
In  your  denial  1  would  find  no  sense, 
I  would  not  understand  it. 

OH.  Why,  what  would  you  ? 

Vio.  Make  me  a  willow  cabin  at  your  gate, 
And  call  upon  my  soul  within  the  house ; 
Write  loyal  cantons  of  contemned  love, 
And  sing  them  loud  even  in  the  dead  of  night ; 
Holla  your  name  to  the  reverberate  hills, 
And  make  the  babbling  gossip  of  the  air 
Cry  out,  Olivia !    O,  you  should  not  rest 
Between  the  elements  of  air  and  earth, 
But  you  should  pity  me. 

OH.  You  might  do  much  :  What  is  your  parentage  ? 

Vio.  Above  my  fortunes,  yet  my  state  is  well : 
I  am  a  gentleman. 

OIL  Get  you  to  your  lord  ; 

I  cannot  love  him :  let  him  send  no  more ; 
Unless,  perchance,  you  come  to  me  again, 
To  tell  me  how  he  takes  it.     Fare  you  well : 
I  thank  you  for  your  pains :  spend  this  for  me. 

Vio.  I  am  no  fee'd  post,  lady  :  keep  your  purse ; 
My  master,  not  myself,  lacks  recompense. 
Love  makes  his  heart  of  flint,  that  you  shall  love  ; 
And  let  your  fervor,  like  my  master's,  be 
Plac'd  in  contempt !    Farewell,  fair  cruelty.  [Exit 

Oli.  What  is  your  parentage  ? 
Above  my  fortunes,  yet  my  state  is  well ; 

I  am  a  gentleman. I'll  be  sworn  thou  art; 

Thy  tongue,  thy  face,  thy  limbs,  actions,  and  spirit, 

Do  give  thee  five-fold  blazon  : — Not  too  fast : — soft !  soft  i 

Unless  the  master  were  the  man. — How  now  ? 

Even  so  quickly  may  one  catch  the  plague  ? 

Methinks,  I  feel  this  youth's  perfections, 

With  an  invisible  and  subtle  stealth, 

To  creep  in  at  mine  eyes.     Well,  let  it  be.— 

What,  ho,  Malvolio  !— 

Re-enter  MALVOLIO. 

Mai.  Here,  madam,  at  your  service. 

Oli.  Run  after  that  same  peevish  messenger,    • 
The  county's  man :  he  left  this  ring  behind  him, 
Would  I,  or  not ;  tell  him,  I'll  none  of  it. 
Desire  him  not  to  flatter  with  his  lord, 
Nor  hold  him  up  with  hopes ;  I  am  not  for  him : 


TWELFTH-NIGET.  363 

If  that  the  youth  will  come  this  way  to-morrow, 
I'll  give  him  reasons  for't.     Hie  thee,  Malvolio. 

Mai.  Madam,  I  will.  \ExiL 

OIL  I  do  I  know  not  what :  and  fear  to  find 
Mine  eye  too  great  a  flatterer  for  my  mind. 
Fate,  show  thy  force  :  Ourselves  wo  do  not  owe  ; 
What  is  decreed,  must  be ;  and  be  this  so !  f  Exit. 


ACT   II. 

SCENE.— A  Street. 
Enter  VIOLA  ;  MALVOLIO  following. 

Mai.  Were  not  you  even  now  with  the  countess  Olivia  ? 

Vio.  Even  now,  sir  ;  on  a  moderate  pace  I  have  since  arrived  but 
hither. 

Mai.  She  returns  this  ring  to  you,  sir ;  you  might  have  saved  me 
my  pains,  to  have  taken  it  away  yourself.  She  adds,  moreover,  that 
you  should  put  your  lord  into  a  desperate  assurance  she  will  none  of 
him:  And  one  thing  more;  that  you  he  n^ver'so  hardy  to  come 
again  in  his  affairs,  unless  it  be  to  report  your  lord's  taking  of  this. 
Receive  it  so. 

Vio.  She  took  the  ring  of  me ;  I'll  none  of  it. 

Mai.  Come,  sir,  you  peevishly  threw  it  to  her ;  and  her  will  is,  it 
should  be  so  returned :  if  it  be  worth  stooping  far,  there  it  lies  in 
your  eye  ;  if  not,  be  it  his  that  finds  it.  '[Exit. 

Vio.  I  left  no  ring  with  her :  What  means  this  lady  ? 
Fortune  forbid,  my  outside  have  not  charm'd  her ! 
She  made  good  view  of  me ;  indeed,  so  much, 
That,  sure,  methought,  her  eyes  had  lost  her  tongue 
For  she  did  speak  in  starts  distractedly. 
She  loves  me,  sure ;  the  cunning  of  her  passion 
Invites  me  in  this  churlish  messenger. 
None  of  my  lord's  ring  !  why,  he  sent  her  none. 
I  am  the  man ; — If  it  be  so,  (as  'tis,) 
Poor  lady,  she  were  better  love  a  dream. 
Disguise,  I  see,  thou  art  a  wickedness, 
Wherein  the  pregnant  enemy  does  much. 
How  easy  is  it,  for  the  proper-false 
In  women's  waxen  hearts  to  set  their  forms  I 
Alas,  our  frailty  is  the  cause,  not  we ; 
For,  such  as  we  are  made  of,  such  we  be. 
My  master  loves  her  dearly ; 
And  I,  poor  monster,  fond  as  much  on  him ; 
And  she,  mistaken,  seems  to  dote  on  me : 
What  will  become  of  this  !     As  I  am  man, 
My  state  is  desperate  for  my  master's  love : 
As  I  am  woman,  now  alas  the  day  ! 


864  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

What  thriftless  sighs  shall  poor  Olivia  breathe  ? 

O  time,  thou  must  entangle  this,  not  I ; 

It  is  too  hard  a  kn^t  for  me  to  untie.  [Exit 

Viola  becomes  enamored  of  the  Duke,  and  with  exquisite  delicacy  describes  her  own 
feelings,  while  professing  to  narrate  her  sistei's  story. 

SCENE.— A  Room  in  the  Duke's  Palace. 
Enter  DUKE,  VIOLA,  CURIO,  and  others. 

Duke.  Give  me  some  music  . — Now,  good  morrow,  friends  : 

Now,  good  Cesario,  but  that  piece  of  song, 
That  old  and  antique  song  we  heard  last  night : 
Methought,  it  did  relieve  my  passion  much ; 
More  than  light  airs  and  recollected  terms, 

Of  these  most  brisk  and  giddy-paced  times : 

Come,  but  one  verse. 

Cur.  He  is  not  here,  so  please  your  k-rdship,  that  should  sing  it. 

Duke.  Who  was  it  ? 

Cur.  Feste,  the  jester,  my  lord ;  a  fool,  that  the  lady  Olivia's  father 
took  much  delight  in :  he  is  about  the  house. 

Duke.  Seek  him  out,  and  play  the  tune  the  while. 

[Exit  CURIO. — Music. 
Come  hither,  boy  ;  if  ever  thou  shalt  love, 
In  the  sweet  pangs  of  it,  remember  me  : 
For,  such  as  I  am,  all  true  lovers  are ; 
Unstaid  and  skittish  in  all  motions  else, 
Save,  in  the  constant  image  of  the  creature 
That  is  belov'd. — How  dost  thou  like  this  tune  ? 

Vio.  It  gives  a  very  echo  to  the  seat 
Where  Love  is  thron'd. 

Duke.  Thou  dost  speak  masterly  : 

My  life  upon't,  young  though  thou  art,  thine  eye 
Hath  stay'd  upon  some  favor  that  it  loves  ; 
Hath  it  not,  boy  ? 

Vio.  A  little,  by  your  favor. 

Duke.  What  kind  of  woman  is't  ? 

Vio.  Of  your  complexion. 

Duke.  She  is  not  worth  thee  then.     What  years,  i'  faith  ? 

Vio.  About  your  years,  my  lord. 

Duke.  Too  old,  by  heaven.     Let  still  the  woman  take 
^n  elder  than  herself ;  so  wears  she  to  him, 
So  sways  she  level  in  her  husband's  heart. 
For,  boy,  however  we  do  praise  ourselves, 
Our  fancies  are  more  giddy  and  unfirm, 
More  longing,  wavering,  sooner  lost  and  worn, 
Than  women's  are. 

Vio.  I  think  it  well,  my  lord. 

Duke.  Then  let  thy  love  be  younger  than  thyself, 
Or  thy  afl'ection  cannot  hold  the  bent : 


TWELFTH-NIGHT.  31)5 


For  women  are  as  roses  ;  whose  fair  flower, 
Being  once  display'd,  doth  fall  that  very  hour. 

Vio.  And  so  they  are  ;  alas,  that  they  are  so  ; 
To  die,  even  when  they  to  perfection  grow  ! 

Duke.  Once  more,  Cesario, 
Get  thee  to  yond'  same  sovereign  cruelty  : 
Tell  her,  my  love,  more  noble  than  the  world, 
Prizes  not  quantity  of  dirty  lands  ; 
The  parts  that  fortune  hath  bestow'd  upon  her, 
Tell  her,  I  hold  as  giddily  as  fortune  ; 
But  'tis  that  miracle,  and  queen  of  gems, 
That  nature  pranks  her  in,  attracts  my  soul. 

Vio.  But  if  she  cannot  love  you,  sir  ? 

Duke.  1  cannot  be  so  answer'd. 

Vio.  'Sooth,  but  you 

Say,  that  some  lady,  as,  perhaps,  there  is, 
Hath  for  your  love  as  great  a  pang  of  heart 
As  you  have  for  Olivia  :  you  cannot  love  her  ; 
You  tell  her  so  ;  Must  she  not  then  be  answer'd  ? 

Duke.  There  is  no  woman's  sides, 
Can  bide  the  beating  of  so  strong  a  passion 
As  love  doth  give  my  heart  :  no  woman's  heart 
So  big,  to  hold  so  much  ;  they  lack  retention. 
But  mine  is  all  as  hungry  as  the  sea, 
And  can  digest  as  much  :  make  no  compare 
Between  that  love  a  woman  can  bear  me, 
And  that  I  owe  Olivia. 

Vio.  Ay,  but  I  know,  — 

Duke.  What  dost  thou  know  ? 

Vio.  Too  well  what  love  women  to  men  may: 
In  faith,  they  are  as  true  of  heart  as  we. 
My  father  had  a  daughfer  lov'd  a  man, 
As  it  might  be,  perhaps,  were  I  a  woman, 
I  should  your  lordship. 

Duke.  And  what's  her  history  ? 

Vio.  A  blank,  my  lord  :  She  never  told  her  love, 
But  let  concealment,  like  a  worm  i'  the  bud, 
Feed  on  her  damask  cheek  :  she  pin'd  in  thought  ; 
And,  with  a  green  and  yellow  melancholy, 
She  sat  like  patience  on  a  monument, 
Smiling  at  grief.     Was  not  this  love,  indeed  ? 
We  men  may  say  more,  swear  more  :  but,  indeed, 
Our  shows  are  more  than  will  ;  for  still  we  prove 
Much  in  our  vows,  but  little  in  our  love. 

Duke.  But  died  thy  sister  of  her  love,  my  boy  ? 

Vio.  I  am  all  the  daughters  of  my  father's  house, 
And  all  the  brothers  .,00  ;  —  and  yet  I  know  not.  — 
Sir,  shall  I  to  this  lady  ? 

Duke.  Ay,  that's  the  theme. 


886  SHAKSPEARIAN   READER, 

To  her  in  haste ;  give  her  this  jewel ;  say, 
My  love  can  give  no  place,  bide  no  denay.* 

ACT  III. 

OLIVIA,  and  VIOLA. 

According  to  the  Duke's  instructions,  Viola  again  presents  herself  to  Olivia,  but  fin<h 
the  lady  unwilling  to  listen  to  Orsino's  suit.  The  cause  is  explained  in  the  following 
tcene. 

OIL  Give  me  your  hand,  sir. 

Vio.  My  duty,  madam,  and  most  humble  serv  ce. 

OIL  What  is  your  name  ? 

Vio.  Cesano  is  your  servant's  name,  fair  princess. 

OIL  My  servant,  sir  !  'Twas  never  merry  world 
Since  lowly  feigning  was  call'd  compliment : 
You  are  servant  to  the  count  Orsino,  youth. 

Vio.  And  he  is  yours,  and  his  must  needs  be  yours ; 
Your  servant's  servant  is  your  servant,  madam. 

OIL  For  him,  I  think  not  on  him  :  for  his  thoughts, 
Would  they  were  blanks,  rather  than  filled  with  me ! 

Vio.  Madam,  I  come  to  whet  your  gentle  thoughts 
On  his  behalf:— 

OIL  O,  by  your  leave,  I  pray  you ; 

I  bade  you  never  speak  again  of  him  : 
But,  would  you  undertake  another  suit, 
I  had  rather  hear  you  to  solicit  that, 
Than  music  from  the  spheres. 

Vio.  Dear  lady, 

OIL  Give  me  leave,  I  beseech  you :  I  did  send 
After  the  last  enchantment  you  did  here, 
A  ring  in  chase  of  you  ;  so  did  I  abuse 
Myself,  my  servant,  and,  I  fear  me,  you : 
Under  your  hard  construction  must- 1  sit, 
To  force  that  on  you,  in  a  shameful  cunning, 
Which  you  knew'  none  of  yours  :  What  might  you  think  ? 
Have  you  not  set  mine  honor  at  the  stake, 
And  baited  it  with  all  the  unmuzzled  thoughts 
That  tyrannous  heart  can  think  ?  To  one  of  your  receiving 
Enough  is  shown  ;  a  Cyprus,  not  a  bosom, 
Hides  my  poor  heart :  So  let  me  hear  you  speak. 

Vio.  I  pity  you. 

OIL  That's  a  degree  to  love. 

Vio.  No,  not  a  step  ;  for  'tis  a  vulgar  prooJ, 
Thai  very  oft  we  pity  enemies. 

OIL  Why,  then,  methinks,  'tis  time  to  smile  again. 
O  world,  how  apt  the  poor  are  to  be  proud ! 

*  Denial. 


TWELFTH-NIGHT.  307 

If  one  should  be  a  prey,  how  much  the  better 

To  fall  before  the  lion,  than  the  wolf?  f CIJL\  strikes 

The  clock  upbraids  me  with  the  waste  of  time. — 

Be  not  afraid,  good  youth,  T  will  not  have  you : 

And  yet,  when  wit  and  youth  is  come  to  harvest, 

Your  wife  is  like  to  reap  a  proper  man : 

There  lies  your  way,  due  west. 

Vio.  Then  westward-ho : 

Grace,  and  good  disposition  'tend  your  ladyship ! 
You'll  nothing,  madam,  to  my  lord  by  me  ? 

OIL  Stay: 
I  pr'ythee,  tell  me,  what  thou  think'st  of  me. 

Vio.  That  you  do  think,  you  are  not  what  you  are. 

Oli.  If  I  think  so,  I  think  the  same  of  you. 

Vio.  Then  think  you  right ;  I  am  not  what  I  am. 

OH.  I  would  you  were  as  I  would  have  you  be ! 

Vio.  Would  it  be  better,  madam,  than  I  am, 
I  wish  it  might ;  for  now  I  am  your  fool. 

OIL  O,  what  a  deal  of  scorn  looks  beautiful 
In  the  contempt  and  anger  of  his  lip ! 
A  murd'rous  guilt  shows  not  itself  more  soon 
Than  love  that  would  seem  hid  :  love's  night  is  noon. 
Cesario,  by  the  roses  of  the  spring, 
By  maidhood,  honor,  truth,  and  every  thing, 
I  love  thee  so,  that,  maugre  all  thy  pride, 
Nor  wit,  nor  reason,  can  my  passion  hide. 
Do  not  extort  thy  reasons  from  this  clause, 
For,  that  I  woo,  thou  therefore  hast  no  cause : 
But,  rather,  reason  thus  with  reason  fetter : 
Love  sought  is  good,  but  given  unsought,  is  betteir 

Vio.  By  innocence  I  swear,  and  by  my  youth, 
I  have  one  heart,  one  bosom,  and  one  truth, 
And  that  i  o  woman  has  ;  nor  never  none 
Shall  mistress  be  of  it,  save  I  alone. 
And  so  adieu,  good  madam  ;  never  more 
Will  I  my  master's  tears  to  you  deplore. 

OIL  Yet  come  again  :  for  thou,  perhaps,  may'st  move 
That  heart,  which  now  abhors,  to  like  his  love.  [Exeunt, 


ACT  V. 

Sebastian,  the  twin-brother  of  Viola,  is  saved  from  the  wreck  in  which  he  believes  his 
lister  was  lost.  Having  business  at  Orsino's  court,  he  arrives  there  accompanied  by  liii 
friend  Antonio.  He  is  supposed  to  be  the  exact  counterpart  of  his  sister,  as  she  appears, 
when  disguised  as  the  Page.  In  passing  near  Olivia's  house,  he  is  encountered  by  a 
servant  of  the  lady's,  who  has  been  sent  to  request  Viola  will  come  and  speak  with 
Olivia.  He  denies  all  knowledge  of  the  lady,  but  Olivia  enters,  and  believing  him  to  be 
Viola,  entreats  him  to  enter  the  house :  he  consents, — and  the  lady  so  charms  him,  that 


368  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

he  yields  a,  willing  assent  to  her  proposals  of  immediate  marriage.  The  Duke  still  \ters\«t 
ing  in  his  passion  for  Olivia,  determines  to  seek  the  lady  in  person,  accompanied  bj 
Viola.  On  reaching  Olivia's  house,  he  is  met  by  Antonio,  Sebastian's  friend,  wh« 
accosts  Viola,  supposing  her  to  be  Sebastian.  The  Duke,  supposing  the  man  to  be  in- 
eane,  indignantly  rebukes  him.  — Olivia  enters  from  the  house,  and  seeing  Viola,  addressee 
her  as  her  lately  married  husband. 

Duke.  Here  comes  the  countess ;  now  heaven  walks  on  earth. — 
.But  for  thee,  fellow,  fellow,  thy  words  are  madness : 
Three  months  this  youth  hath  tended  upon  me ; 
But  more  of  that  anon. Take  him  aside. 

Oli.  What  would  my  lord,  but  that  he  may  not  have, 
Wherein  Olivia  may  seem  serviceable  ? — 
Cesario,  you  do  not  keep  promise  with  me. 

Vio.  Madam? 

Duke.  Gracious  Olivia, 

Oli.  What  do  you  say,  Cesario  ? Good  my  lord, 

Vio.  My  lord  wouM  speak,  my  duty  hushes  me. 

OIL  If  it  be  aught  to  the  old  tune,  my  lord, 
It  is  as  fat  and  fulsome  to  mine  ear, 
As  howling  after  music. 

Duke.  Still  so  cruel  ? 

OH.  Still  so  constant,  lord. 

Duke.  What !  to  perverseness  ?  you  uncivil  lady, 
To  whose  ingrate  and  unauspicious  altars 
My  soul  the  faithfull'st  offerings  hath  breath'd  out, 
That  e'er  devotion  tender'd  !    What  shall  I  do  ? 

Oli.  Even  what  it  please  my  lord,  that  shall  become  him. 

Duke.  Why  should  I  not,  had  I  the  heart  to  do  it, 
Like  to  the  Egyptian  thief,  at  point  of  death, 
Kill  what  I  love  ;  a  savage  jealousy, 
That  sometime  savors  nobly  ? — But  hear  me  this  : 
Since  you  to  non-regardance  cast  my  faith, 
And  that  I  partly  know  the  instrument 
That  screws  me  from  my  true  place  in  your  favor, 
Live  you,  the  marble-breasted  tyrant,  still ; 
But  this  your  minion,  whom,  I  know,  you  love, 
And  whom,  by  heaven  I  swear,  I  tender  dearly, 
Him  will  I  tear  out  of  that  cruel  eye, 
Where  he  sits  crowned  in  his  master's  spite. — 
Come,  boy,  with  me ;  my  thoughts  are  ripe  in  mischief: 
I'll  sacrifice  the  lamb  that  I  do  love, 
To  spite  a  raven's  heart  within  a  dove.  [Going 

Vio.  And  I,  most  jocund,  apt,  and  willingly, 
To  do  you  rest,  a  thousand  deaths  would  die.  [Following 

Oli.  Where  goes  Cesario  ? 

Vio.  After  him  I  love, 

More  than  I  love  these  eyes,  more  than  my  life, 
More,  by  all  mores,  than  e'er  I  shall  love  wife : 


TWELFTH-NIGHT,  309 

If  I  do  feign,  you  witnesses  above, 
Punish  my  life,  for  tainting  of  my  love  ! 

OIL  Ah  me,  detested  !  how  am  I  beguil'd  ! 

Via.  Who  does  beguile  you  ?  who  does  do  you  wrong  ? 

OH.  Hast  thou  forgot  thyself  ?     Is  it  so  long  ? — 
Call  forth  the  holy  father.  [Exit  an  Attendant 

Duke.  Come  away.  [To  V  101*4 

OIL  Whither,  my  lord  ?     Cesario,  husband,  stay. 

Duke.  Husband? 

OIL  Ay,  husband,  can  he  that  deny  ? 

Duke.  Her  husband,  sirrah  ? 

Vio.  No,  my  lord,  not  I. 

OIL  Alas,  it  is  the  baseness  of  thy  fear, 
That  makes  thee  strangle  thy  propriety : 
Fear  not,  Cesario,  take  thy  fortunes  up ; 
Be  that  thou  know'st  thou  art,  and  then  thou  art 
As  great  as  that  thou  fear'st. — O,  welcome,  father ! 

Re-enter  Attendant  and  Priest. 

Father,  I  charge  thee,  by  thy  reverence, 
Here  to  unfold  (though  lately  we  intended 
To  keep  in  darkness,  what  occasion  now 
Reveals  before  'tis  ripe,)  what  thou  dost  know, 
Hath  newly  past  between  this  youth  and  me. 

Priest.  A  contract  of  eternal  bond  of  love, 
Conrirm'd  by  mutual  joinder  of  your  hands, 
Attested  by  the  holy  close  of  lips, 
Strengthen'd  by  interchangement  of  your  rings  ; 
And  all  the  ceremony  of  this  compact 
Seal'd  in  my  function,  by  my  testimony : 
Since  when,  my  watch  hath  told  me,  toward  my  grave, 
I  have  travelled  but  two  hours. 

Duke.  O,  thou  dissembling  cub  !  what  wilt  thou  bo 
When  time  hath  sow'd  a  grizzle  on  thy  case  ? 
Or  will  not  else  thy  craft  so  quickly  grow, 
That  thine  own  trip  shall  be  thine  overthrow  ? 
Farewell,  and  take  her ;  but  direct  thy  feet, 
Where  thou  and  I  henceforth  may  never  meet 

Vio.  My  lord,  I  do  protest, — 

OIL  O,  do  not  swear ; 

Hold  little  faith,  though  thou  hast  too  much  fear. 

Enter  SEBASTIAN. 

Duke.  One  face,  one  habit,  and  two  persons  ; 
A  natural  perspective,  that  is,  and  is  not 

Seb.  Antonio,  O  rny  dear  Antonio ! 
How  have  the  hours  rack'd  ind  tortur'd  me, 
Since  I  have  lost  thee. 


370  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Ant.  Sebastian  are  you? 

Seb.  Fear'st  thou  that,  Antonio  ? 

Ant.  How  have  you  made  division  of  yourself? — 
An  apple,  cleft  in  two,  is  not  more  twin 
Than  these  two  creatures.     Which  is  Sebastian  ? 

OIL  Most  wonderful ! 

Seb.  Do  I  stand  there  ?    I  never  had  a  brother : 
Nor  can  there  be  that  deity  in  my  nature, 
Of  here  and  every  where.     I  had  a  sister, 
Whom  the  blind  waves  and  surges  have  devour'd  : — 
Of  charity,  what  kin  are  you  to  me  ?  [To  VU>LA. 

What  countryman  ?  what  name  ?  what  parentage  ? 

Vio.  Of  Messaline :  Sebastian  was  my  father , 
Such  a  Sebastian  was  my  brother  too, 
So  went  he  suited  to  his  watery  tomb : 
If  spirits  can  assume  both  form  and  suit 
You  come  to  fright  us. 

Seb.  Were  you  a  woman,  as  the  rest  goes  even, 
I  should  my  tears  let  fall  upon  your  cheek, 
And  say — Thrice  welcome,  drowned  Viola  ! 

Vio.  My  father  had  a  mole  upon  his  brow. 

Seb.  And  so  had  mine. 

Vio.  And  died  that  day  when  Viola  from  her  birth 
Had  number'd  thirteen  years. 

Seb.  O,  that  record  is  lively  in  my  soul ! 
He  finished,  indeed,  in  his  mortal  act, 
That  day  that  made  my  sister  thirteen  years. 

Vio.  If  nothing  lets  to  make  us  happy  both 
But  this  my  masculine  usurp'd  attire, 
Do  not  embrace  me,  till  each  circumstance 
Of  place,  time,  fortune,  do  cohere,  and  jump, 
That  I  am  Viola :  which  to  confirm, 
I'll  bring  you  to  a  captain  in  this  town, 
Where  lie  my  maiden  weeds ;  by  whose  gentle  help 
I  was  preserv'd,  to  serve  this  noble  count ; 
All  the  occurrence  of  my  fortune  since 
Hath  been  between  this  lady  and  this  lord. 

Seb.  So  comes  it,  lady,  you  have  been  mistook :          [  To  OLIVIA. 
But  nature  to  her  bias  drew  in  that, 
You  would  have  been  contracted  to  a  maid ; 
Nor  are  you  therein,  by  my  life,  deceiv'd, 
You  are  betroth'd  both  to  a  maid  and  man. 

Duke.  Be  not  amaz'd  ;  right  noble  is  his  blood. — 
If  this  be  so,  as  j  et  the  glass  seems  true, 
I  shall  have  share  in  this  most  happy  wreck : 

Boy,  thou  hast  said  te  me  a  thousand  times,  [To  Vio. 

Thou  never  should'st  love  woman  like  to  me. 

Vio.  And  all  those  sayings  will  I  over-swear; 
And  all  those  swearings  keep  as  true  in  soul, 


TWELFTH-NIGHT.  371 

As  doth  that  orbed  continent  the  fire 
That  severs  day  from  night. 

Duke.  Give  me  thy  hand ; 

And  let  me  see  thee  in  thy  woman's  weeds. 

Vio.  The  captain,  that  did  bring  me  first  on 
Hath  my  maid's  garments :  he  upon  some  action, 
Is  now  in  durance  :  at  MalvoHo's  suit, 
A  gentleman,  and  follower  of  my  lady's. 

OIL  He  shall  enlarge  him. 

My  lord,  so  please  you,  these  things  further  thought  on, 
To  think  me  as  well  a  sister  as  a  wife, 
One  day  shall  crown  the  alliance  on't,  so  please  you, 
Here  at  my  house,  and  at  my  proper  cost. 

Duke.  Madam,  I  am  most  apt  to  embrace  your  offer. — 
Your  master  quits  you ; — [  To  VIOLA.] — and,  for  your  service  done 

him, 

So  much  against  the  mettle  of  your  sex, 
So  far  beneath  your  soft  and  tender  breeding, 
And  since  you  call'd  me  master  for  so  long, 
Here  is  my  hand  ;  you  shall  from  this  time  be 
Your  master's  mistress. 

OH.  A  sister  ? — you  are  she. 

Duke.  A  solemn  combination  shall  be  made 
Of  our  dear  souls — Meantime,  sweet  sister, 
We  will  not  pan  from  hence. — Cesario,  come ; 
For  so  you  shall  be,  while  you  are  a  man ; 
But,  when  in  other  habits  you  are  seen, 
Orsiao's  mistress,  and  his  fancy's  queen,  \  Exeunt* 


MEASURE  FOE  MEASURE. 


The  outline  of  this  Play  is  taken  from  a  novel  of  Cinthio,  the  Italian  novelist  and 
tragic  author,  to  whom  Shakspeare  was  likewise  indebted  for  the  story  of  Othello. 

Measure  for  Measure,  presents  us  with  one  of  the  most  perfect  of  our  author's  female 
characters  in  the  person  of  Isabella.  Dr.  Blake  says,  of  this  beautiful  creation,  that 
"  Piety,  spotless  purity,  tenderness  combined  with  firmness,  and  an  eloquence  the  most  per- 
suasive, unite  to  render  her  singularly  interesting  and  attractive."  Of  the  general  excellence 
of  this  Drama,  Mr.  Verplanck  justly  remarks,  that  "  there  is  no  composition,  of  the 
lame  length,  in  the  language,  which  has  left  more  of  its  expressive  ph.-ases,  its  moral  aplior 
isms,  its  brief  sentences,  ciowded  with  meaning,  fixed  on  the  general  memory,  and  em- 
oodied  by  daily  use  in  every  form  of  popular  eloquence,  argument,  and  literature." 

Onr  extracts,  though  necessarily  brief,  will  be  found  to  embody  the  principal  striking 
beauties  of  this  truly  impressive  composition. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 

VICENTIO,  Duke  of  Vienna. 

ANGELO,  lord  deputy  in  the  Duke's  absence. 

ESCALUS,  an  ancient  lord,  joined  with  Angelo  in  the  deputation. 

C/LAUPIO,  a  young  gentleman. 

Lucio,  a  fantastic. 

Two  other  like  gentlemen. 

VARRIUS,  a  gentleman,  servant  to  the  Duke 

Provost. 

THOMAS,  PETER,  two  friars. 

A  Justice. 

ELBOW,  a  simple  constable. 

FROTH,  a  foolish  gentleman. 

Clown,  servant  to  Mrs.  Over-done. 

ABHORSON,  an  executioner. 

BARNARDINE,  a  dissolute  prisoner. 

ISABELLA,  sister  to  Claudio 
MARIANA,  betrothed  to  Angelo. 
JULIET,  beloved  by  Claudio. 
FRANCISCA,  a  nun. 
Mistress  OVER- DONE, 

Lords,  Gentlemen,  Guards,  Officers,  and  other  Attendants. 
SCENE.— VIENNA. 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.  373 

The  Dnke  of  Vienna,  determines  to  examine  in  person,  the  condition  of  his  people. 
To  do  this  effectually  he  purposes  to  resign,  for  a  period,  his  government  into  the  keeping 
of  Lord  Angelo,  and  Escalus,  and  in  disguise  to  mix  with  his  subjects  and  learn  theii 
actual  condition,  and  ascertain  whether  the  laws  are  faithfully  administered. 

ACT  1. 

SCENE  I. — An  Apartment  in  the  Duke's  Palace. 
Enter  DUKE,  ESCALUS,  Lords,  and  Attendants. 

Duke.  Escalus,— 

Escal.  My  lord. 

Duke.  Of  government  the  properties  to  unfold, 
Would  seem  in  me  to  affect  speech  and  discourse ; 
Since  I  am  put  to  know,  that  your  own  science 
.  Exceeds,  in  that,  the  lists  of  all  advice 
My  strength  can  give  you  :  Then  no  more  remains 
But  that  to  your  sufficiency,  as  your  worth  is  able, 
And  let  them  work.     The  nature  of  our  people, 
Our  city's  institutions,  and  the  terms 
For  common  justice,  you  are  as  pregnant  in, 
As  art  and  practice  hath  enriched  any 
That  we  remember  :  There  is  our  commission, 
From  which  we  would  not  have  you  warp. — Ca..  hither, 
I  say,  bid  come  before  us  Angelo. —  [Exit  an  Attendant 

What  figure  of  us  think  you  he  will  bear  ? 
For  you  must  know,  we  have  with  special  soul 
Elected  him  our  absence  to  supply  ; 
Lent  him  our  terror,  drest  him  with  our  love ; 
And  given  his  deputation  all  the  organs 
Of  our  own  power  :  What  think  you  of  it  ? 

Escal.  If  any  in  Vienna  be  of  worth 
To  undergo  suci:  ample  grace  and  honor, 
It  is  lord  Angelo. 

Enter  ANGELO. 

Duke.  Look,  where  he  comes. 

Ang.  Always  obedient  to  your  grace's  will, 
I  come  to  know  your  pleasure. 

Duke.  Angelo, 

There  is  a  kind  of  character  in  thy  life, 
That,  to  the  observer,  doth  thy  history 
Fully  unfoM :  Thyself  and  thy  belongings 
Are  not  thine  own  so  proper,  as  to  waste 
Thyself  upon  thy  virtues,  them  on  thee. 
Heaven  doth  with  us,  as  we  with  torches  do ; 
Not  light  them  for  themselves  :  for  if  our  virtues 
Did  not  go  forth  of  us,  'twere  all  alike 
As  if  we  had  them  not.     Spirits  are  not  finely  touch'd. 


374  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

But  to  fine  issues  :  nor  nature  never  lends 

The  smallest  scruple  of  her  excellence, 

But,  like  a  thrifty  goddess,  she  determines 

Herself  the  glory  of  a  creditor, 

Both  thanks  and  use.     But  I  do  bend  my  speech 

To  one  that  can  my  part  in  him  advertise ; 

Hold  therefore,  Angelo ; 

In  our  remove,  be  thou  at  full  ourself : — 

Mortality  mid  mercy  in  Vienna 

Live  in  thy  tongue  and  heart :  Escalus, 

Though  first  in  question,  is  the  secondary : 

Take  thy  commission. 

Aug.  Now,  good  my  lord, 

Let  there  be  some  more  test  made  of  my  metal, 
Before  so  noble  and  so  great  a  figure 
}>e  stamp'd  upon  it. 

Duke.  No  more  evasion : 

We  have  with  a  leaven'd  and  prepared  choice 
Proceeded  to  you  ;  therefore  take  your  honors. 
Our  iiaste  from  hence  is  of  so  quick  condition, 
That  it  prefers  itself,  and  leaves  unquestion'd 
Matters  of  needful  value.     We  shall  write  to  you, 
As  time  and  our  concernings  shall  importune, 
How  it  goes  with  us  ;  and  do  look  to  know 
What  doth  befall  you  here.     So,  fare  you  well : 
To  the  hopeful  execution  do  I  leave  you 
Of  your  commissions. 

Ang.  Yet,  give  leave,  my  lord, 

That  we  may  bring  you  something  on  the  way. 

Duke.  My  haste  may  not  admit  it ; 
Nor  need  you,  on  mine  honor,  have  to  do 
With  any  scruple  :  your  scope  is  as  mine  own : 
So  to  enforce,  or  qualify  the  laws 
As  to  your  soul  seems  g_od.     Give  me  your  hand ; 
I'll  privily  away  :  I  love  the  people, 
But  do  not  like  to  stage  me  to  their  eyes : 
Though  it  do  well,  I  do  not  relish  well 
Their  loud  applause,  and  aves  vehement : 
Nor  do  I  think  the  man  of  safe  discretion, 
That  does  affect  it.     Once  more,  fare  you  well. 

Ang.  The  heavens  give  safety  to  your  purposes  ! 

Escal.  Lead  forth,  and  bring  you  back  in  happiness. 

Duke.  I  thank  you  :  Fare  you  well. 

Escal.  I  shall  desire  you,  sir,  to  give  me  leave 
To  have  free  speech  with  you  ;  and  it  concerns  mo 
To  look  into  the  bottom  of  my  place : 
A  power  I  have  ;  but  of  what  strength  and  nature 
I  am  not  yet  instructed. 

Ang .  'Tis  so  with  me  : — Let  us  withdraw  together 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.  375 

And  we  may  soon  our  satisfaction  have 
Touching  that  point. 

Escal.  I'll  wait  upon  your  honor.  [Exeunt. 

The  Duke  proceeds  to  a  Monastery  in  the  city,  and  assumes  the  disguise  of  a  Fiia 

SCENE.— A  Monastery. 

Enter  DUKE,  and  Friar  THOMAS. 

Duke.  No ;  holy  father  ;  throw  away  that  thought ; 
Believe  not  that  the  dribbling  dart  of  love 
Can  pierce  a  complete  bosom :  why  I  desire  thee 
To  give  me  secret  harbor,  hath  a  purpose 
More  grave  and  wrinkled  than  the  aims  and  ends 
Of  burning  youth. 

Fri  May  your  grace  speak  of  it  ? 

Duke.  My  holy  sir,  none  better  knows  than  you 
How  I  have  ever  lov'd  the  life  removed ; 
And  held  in  idle  price  to  haunt  assemblies, 
Where  youth,  and  costs,  and  witless  bravery  keeps. 
I  have  d'eliver'd  to  lord  Angelo 
(A  man  of  stricture,  and  firm  abstinence,) 
My  absolute  power  and  place  here  in  Vienna, 
And  he  supposes  me  travell'd  to  Poland  ; 
For  so  I  have  strew'd  it  in  the  common  ear. 
And  so  it  is  received  :  Now,  pious  sir, 

You  will  demand  of  me,  why  I  do  this  ? 
Fri.  Gladly,  my  lord. 
Duke.  We  have  strict  statutes,  and  most  biting  laws, 

(The  needful  bits  and  curbs  for  headstrong  steeds,) 

Which  for  these  fourteen  years  we  have  let  sleep 

Even  like  an  o'ergrown  lion  in  a  cave, 

That  goes  not  out  to  prey  :  Now,  as  fond  fathers 

Having  bound  up  the  threat'ning  twigs  of  birch, 

Only  to  stick  it  in  their  children's  sight, 

For  terror,  not  to  use  ;  in  time  the  rod 

Becomes  more  mock'd,  than  fear'd,  so  our  decrees, 

Dead  to  infliction,  to  themselves  are  dead  ; 

And  liberty  plucks  justice  by  the  nose, 

The  baby  beats  the  nurse,  and  quite  athwart 

Goes  all  decorum. 

Fri.  It  rested  on  your  grace 

To  unloose  this  tied-up  justice,  when  you  pleas'd : 

And  it  in  you  more  dreadful  would  have  seem'd, 

Than  in  Lord  Angelo. 

Duke.  I  do  fear,  too  dreadful : 

Sith  'twas  my  fault  to  give  the  people  scope, 

'Twould  be  my  tyranny  to  strike  and  gall  them 

For  what  I  bid  them  do  :  For  we  bid  this  be  done, 


376  SHAKSPEAR1AN    READER. 

When  evil  deeds  have  their  permissive  pass, 

And  not  the  punishment.     Therefore,  indeed,  my  father, 

I  have  on  Angelo  impos'd  the  office  ; 

Who  may,  in  the  ambush  of  my  name,  strike  home, 

And  yet  my  nature  never  in  the  sight, 

To  do  it  slander  :  And  to  behold  his  sway, 

I  will,  as  'twere  a  brother  of  your  order, 

Visit  both  prince  and  people  :  therefore,  I  pr'ythee 

Supply  me  with  the  habit,  and  instruct  me 

How  I  may  formally  in  person  bear  me 

Like  a  true  friar.     More  reasons  for  this  action, 

At  our  more  leisure  shall  I  render  you  ; 

Only,  this  one  : — Lord  Angelo  is  precise : 

Stands  at  a  guard  with  envy ;  scarce  confesses 

That  his  blood  flows,  or  that  his  appetite 

Is  more  to  bread  than  stone  :  Hence  shall  we  see, 

Tf  power  change  purpose,  what  our  seemers  be,  ^Exeunt 

ACT  II. 

Angelo  assumes  the  government,  with  rigid  seventy  ;  hs  jails  inti*  enactment,  old 
laws,  long  disused,  and  makes  offenders  pay  the  utmo/st  penalty  for  their  transgressions. 

Clandio,  a  profligate  young  gentleman,  is  condemned  to  death,  undo,  one  of  these  re- 
vived laws.  He  prevails  on  his  sister  Isabella,  a  young  novice,  to  leave  the  cloistei,  and 
go  in  person  to  Angelo,  and  endeavor  to  obtain  a  pardon  from  the  Lord  Deputy. 

SCENE.— A  hall  in  Angelo's  House. 
Enter  ANGELO,  and  ESCALUS. 

Aug.  We  must  not  make  a  scare-crow  of  the  law, 
Setting  it  up  to  fear  the  birds  of  prey, 
And  let  it  keep  one  shape,  till  custom  make  it 
Their  perch,  and  not  their  terror. 

Escal.  Ay,  but  yet 

Let  us  be  keen,  and  rather  cut  a  little, 
Than  fall,  and  bryise  to  death :  Alas  !  this  gentleman, 
Whom  I  would  save,  had  a  most  noble  father. 
Let  but  your  honor  know, 
(Whom  I  believe  to  be  most  strait  in  virtue,) 
That,  in  the  working  of  your  own  affections, 
Had  time  coher'd  with  place,  or  place  with  wishing, 
Or  that  the  resolute  acting  of  your  blood 
Could  have  attain'd  the  effect  of  your  own  purpose, 
Whether  you  had  not  sometime  in  your  life 
Err'd  in  this  point  which  now  you  censure  him,. 
And  pull'd  the  law  upon  you. 

A  ng.  'Tis  one  thing  to  be  tempted,  Escalus, 
Another  thing  to  fall.     I  not  deny, 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.  377 

The  jury,  passing  on  the  prisoner's  life, 

May,  in  the  sworn  twelve,  have  a  thief  or  two 

Guiltier  than  him  they  try:  What's  open  made  to  justice, 

That  justice  seizes.     What  know  the  laws, 

That  thieves  do  pass  on  thieves  ?     'Tis  very  pregnant, 

The  jewel  that  we  tind,  we  stoop  and  take  it, 

Because  we  see  it ;  but  what  we  do  not  see, 

We  tread  upon,  and  never  think  of  it. 

You  may  not  so  extenuate  his  offence, 

For  I  have  had  such  faults  :  but  rather  tell  me, 

When  I,  that  censure  him,  do  so  offend, 

Let  mine  own  judgment  pattern  out  my  death, 

And  nothing  come  in  partial.     Sir,  he  must  die. 

EscaL  13e  it  as  your  wisdom  will. 

Aug.  WThere  is  the  provost  ? 

Prov.  Here,  if  it  like  your  honor. 

Aug.  See  that  Claudio 

Be  executed  by  nine  to-morrow  .morning : 
Bring  him  his  confessor,  let  him  be  prepar'd ; 
For  that's  the  utmost  of  his  pilgrimage.  [Exli  PiovosL 

EscaL  Well,  heaven  forgive  him  !  and  forgive  us  all ! 
Some  rise  by  sin,  and  some  by  virtue  fall : 
Some  run  from  brakes  of  vice,  and  answer  none ; 
And  some  condemned  for  a  fault  alone. 

SCENE. — Another  Room  in  the  same. 
Enter  Provost  and  a  Servant. 

Serv.  He's  hearing  of  a  cause  ;  -he  will  come  straight. 
I'll  tell  him  of  you. 

Prov.  Pray  you  do. — [Exit  Servant.] — I'll  know 
His  pleasure  ;  may  be,  he  will  relent. 

Ent^r  ANGELO. 
.  Ang.  Now,  what's  the  matter,  provost  ? 

Prov.  Is  it  your  will  Claudio  shall  die  to-morrow  ? 

Ang.  Did  I  not  tell  thee,  yea  ?  hadst  thou  not  order  ? 
Why  dost  thou  ask  again  ? 

Prov.  Lest  I  might  be  too  rash  : 

Under  your  good  correction,  I  have  seen, 
When,  after  execution,  judgment  hath 
Repented  o'er  his  doom. 

Ang.  Go  to ;  let  that  be  mine : 

Do  you  your  office,  or  give  up  your  place, 
And  you  shall  well  be  spar'd. 

Re-enter  Servant. 

Serv.  Here  is  the  sister  of  the  man  condemn'd, 
Desires  access  to  you. 


378  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Ang.  Hath  he  a  sister  ? 

Prov.  Ay,  my  good  lord*  a  very  virtuous  maid, 
And  to  be  shortly  of  a  sisterhood, 
If  not  already. 

Ang.  Well,  let  her  be  admitted.  [Exit  Servant, 

Enter  ISABELLA. 

Prov.  Save  your  honor  ! 

Ang.    Stay  a   little  while. — [To  ISAB.] — You    are    welconifl ' 
What's  your  will  ? 

Isab.  I  am  a  woful  suitor  to  your  honor. 
Please  but  your  honor  hear  me. 

Ang.  Well,  what's  your  suit  ? 

Isab.  There  is  a  vice,  that  most  I  do  abhor, 
And  most  desire  should  meet  the  blow  of  justice ; 
For  which  I  would  not  plead,  but  that  I  must; . 
For  which  I  must  not  plead,  but  that  I  am 
At  war,  'twixt  will,  and  will  not. 

Ang.  Well ;  the  matter  ? 

Isab.  I  have  a  brother  is  condemn'd  to  die  : 
I  do  beseech  you,  let  it  be  his  fault, 
And  not  my  brother. 

Ang.  Condemn  the  fault,  and  not  the  actor  of  it ! 
Why,  every  fault's  condemn'd,  ere  it  be  done  : 
Mine  was  the  very  cipher  of  a  function, 
To  find  the  faults,  whose  fine  stands  in  record, 
And  let  go  by  the  actor. 

Isab.  O  just,  but  severe  law  ! 

I  had  a  brother  then. — Must  he  needs  die  ? 

Ang.  Maiden,  no -remedy. 

Isab.  Yes  ;  I  do  think  that  you  might  pardon  him, 
And  neither  heaven,  nor  man,  grieve  at  the  mercy. 

Ang.  I  will  not  do't. 

Isab.  But  can  you,  if  you  would  ? 

Ang.  Look,  what  I  will  not,  that  I  cannot  do. 

Isab.  But  might  you  do't,  and  do  the  world  no  wrong. 
If  so  your  heart  were  touch'd  with  that  remorse 
As  mine  is  to  him  ? 

Ang.  He's  sentenc'd  ;  'tis  too  late. 

Isab.  Too  late  ?  why,  no ;  I,  that  do  speak  a  word, 
May  call  it  back  again  :  Well,  believe  this, 
No  ceremony  that  to  great  ones  'longs, 
Not  the  king's  crown,  nor  the  deputed  sword, 
The  marshal's  truncheon,  nor  the  judge's  robe, 
Become  them  with  one  half  so  good  a  graces 
As  mercy  does.     If  he  had  been  as  you, 
And  you  as  he,  you  would  have  slipt  like  him  ; 
But  he,  like  you,  would  not  have  been  so  stern, 

Ang.  Pray  you,  begone. 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.  379 

Isdb.  I  would  to  heaven  T  had  your  potency, 
And  you  were  Isabel :  should  it  then  be  thus  ? 
No  ;  I  would  tell  what  'twere  to  be  a  judge, 
And  what  a  prisoner. 

A ng.  Your  brother  is  a  forfeit  of  the  law, 
And  you  but  waste  your  words. 

Isab.  Alas  !  alas  ! 

Why,  all  the  souls  that  were,  were  forfeit  once ; 
And  He  that  might  the  vantage  best  have  took, 
Found  out  the  remedy :  How  would  you  be, 
If  he,  which  is  the  top  of  judgment,  should 
But  judge  you  as  you  are  ?     O,  think  on  that ; 
And  mercy  then  will  breathe  within  your  lips, 
Like  man  new  made. 

Ang.  Be  you  content,  fair  maid  ; 

It  is  the  law,  not  I,  condemns  your  brother : 
Were  he  my  kinsman,  brother,  or  my  son, 
It  should  be  thus  with  him  ; — he  must  die  to-morrow. 

Isab.  To-morrow  ?     O,  that's  sudden  !     Spare  him,  spare  aim : 
He's  not  prepar'd  for  death !     Even  for  our  kitchens 
We  kill  the  fowl  of  season ;  shall  we  serve  heaven 
With  less  respect  than  we  do  minister 
To  our  gross  selves  ?     Good,  good  my  lord,  bethink  you  : 
Who  is  it  that  hath  died  for  this  offence  ? 
There's  many  have  committed  it. 

Ang.  The  law  hath  not  been  dead,  though  it  hath  slept : 
Those  many  had  not  dar'd  to  do  that  evil, 
If  the  first  man  that  did  the  edict  infringe, 
Had  answer'd  for  his  deed  :  now,  'tis  awake  ; 
Takes  note  of  what  is  done ;  and,  like  a  prophet, 
Looks  in  a  glass,  that  shows  what  future  evils, 
(Either  now,  or  by  remissness  new-conceiv'd, 
Arid  so  in  progress  to  be  hatch'd  and  born,) 
Are  now  to  have  no  successive  degrees, 
But,  where  they  live,  to  end. 

Isab.  Yet  show  some  pity. 

Ang.  I  show  it  most  of  all,  when  I  show  justice 
For  then  I  pity  those  I  do  not  know, 
Which  a  dismiss'd  offence  would  after  gall ; 
And  do  him  right,  that,  answering  one  foul  wrong, 
Lives  not  to  act  another.     Be  satisfied  ; 
Your  brother  dies  to-morrow  ;  be  content. 

Isab.  So  you  must  be  the  first  that  gives  this  sentence; 
And  he,  that  surfers  :  O,  it  is  excellent 
To  have  a  giant's  strength ;  but  it  is  tyrannous 
To  use  it  like  a  giant. 
Could  great  men  thunder 

As  Jove  himself  does,  Jove  would  ne'er  be  quiet 
For  every  pelting,  petty  officer 


360  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Would  use  his  heaven  for  thunder :  nothing  but  tlmnder.— — • 

Merciful  heaven ! 

Thou  rather,  with  thy  sharp  and  sulphurous  bolt, 

Split'st  the  unwedgeable  and  gnarlod  oak, 

Than  the  soft  myrtle  ; — But  man,  proud  man  ! 

Drest  in  a  little  brief  authority  ; 

Most  ignorant  of  what  he's  most  assur'd, 

His  glassy  essence, — like  an  angry  ape 

Plays  such  fantastic  tricks  before  high  heaven, 

As  make  the  angels  weep ;  who,  with  our  spleens, 

Would  all  themselves  laugh  mortal. 

We  cannot  weigh  our  brother  .with  ourself: 

Great  men  may  jest  with  saints  :  'tis  wit  in  them  ; 

But,  in  the  less,  foul  profanation. 

That  in  the  captain's  but  a  choleric  word, 

Which  in  the  soldier  is  flat  blasphemy. 

Aug.  Why  do  you  put  these  sayings  upon  me  ? 

Isab.  Because  authority,  though  it  err  ike  others, 
Hath  yet  a  kind  of  medicine  in  itself, 
That  skins  the  vice  o'  the  top  :  Go  to  your  bosom ; 
Knock  there  ;  and  ask  your  heart,  what  it  doth  know 
That's  like  my  brother's  fault :  if  it  confess 
A  natural  guiltiness,  such  as  is  his, 
Let  it  not  sound  a  thought  upon  your  tongue 
Against  my  brother's  life. 

Ang.     [Aside.]                 She  speaks,  and  'tis 
Such  sense,  that  my  sense  breeds  with  it. :Fare  you  well. 

Isab.  Gentle  my  lord,  turn  back. 

Ang.  I  will  bethink  me  : — Come  again  to-morrow. 

Isab.  Hark,  how  I'll  bribe  you  :  Good  my  lord,  turn  back. 

Ang.  How  !  bribe  me  ? 

Isab.  Ay,  with  such  gifts,  that  heaven  shall  share  with  you. 
Not  with  fond  shekels  of  the  tested  gold, 
Or  stones,  whose  rates  are  either  rich,  or  poor, 
As  fancy  values  them  :  but  with  true  prayers, 
That  shall  be  up  at  heaven,  and  enter  there, 
Ere  sunrise  :  prayers  from  preserved  souls, 
From  fasting  maids,  whose  minds  are  dedicate 
To  nothing  temporal. 

Ang.  Well :  come  to  me 

To-morrow. 

Isab.  Heaven  keep  your  honor  safe  ! 
At  what  hour  to-morrow 
Shall  I  attend  your  lordshi  3  ? 

Ang.  At  any  time  'fore  noon. 

Isab.  Save  your  honor !  [Exeunt 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.  381 


ACT   III. 

Isabella  visit*  Angelo,  at  the  lime  appointed,  and  renews  her  suit.  The  apparently 
•tern  dispenser  of  Justice,  makes  dishonorable  proposals  to  her,  as  the  price  of  her 
brother's  life ;  she  indignantly  repels  him  ;  and  hastens  to  the  prison  where  Claudio  u 
confined,  to  tell  him  that  he  must  prepare  for  death. 

•  The  Duke  is  made  acquainted  with  Claudio's  situation,  and  visits  him  in  his  disguise 
u  a  Friar. 

SCENE.— A  Room  in  the  Prison. 
Enter  DUKE,  CLAUDIO,  and  Provost, 

T)uke.  So,  then  you  hope  of  pardon  from  lord  Angelo  ? 

Claud.  The  miserable  have  no  other  medicine, 
But  only  hope : 
I  have  hope  to  live,  and  am  prepar'd  to  die. 

Duke.  Be  absolute  for  death  ;  either  death,  or  life, 
Shall  thereby  be  the  sweeter.     Reason  thus  with  life, — 
If  I  do  lose  thee,  I  do  lose  a  thing 
That  none  but  fools  would  keep :  a  breath  thou  art, 
(Servile  to  all  the  skiey  influences,) 
That  dost  this  habitation,  where  thou  keep'st, 
Hourly  afflict :  merely,  thou  art  death's  fool ; 
For  him  thou  labor'st  by  thy  flight  to  shun, 
And  yet  run'st  toward  him  still :  Thou  art  not  noble, 
For  all  the  accommodations  that  thou  bear'st, 
Are  nurs'd  by  baseness  :  Thou  art  by  no  means  valiant 
For  thou  dost  fear  the  soft  and  tender  fork 
Of  a  poor  worm  :  Thy  best  of  rest  is  sleep, 
And  that  thou  oft  provok'st ;  yet  grossly  fear'st 
Thy  death,  which  is  no  more.     Thou  art  not  thyself; 
For  thou  exist'st  on  many  a  thousand  grains 
That  issue  out  of  dust :  Happy  thou  art  not : 
For  what  thou  hast  not,  still  thou  striv'st  to  get ; 
And  what  thou  hast,  forget'st :  Thou  art  not  certain ; 
For  thy  complexion  shifts  to  strange  effects, 
After  the  moon :  If  thou  art  rich,  thou  art  poor ; 
For,  like  an  ass,  whose  back  with  ingots  bows. 
Thou  bear'st  thy  heavy  riches  but  a  journey, 
And  death  unloads  thee  : 
Thou  hast  nor  youth,  nor  age  ; 
But,  as  it  were,  an  after-dinner's  sleep, 
Dreaming  on  both :  for  all  thy  blessed  youth 
Becomes  as  aged,  and  doth  beg  the  alms 
Of  palsied  eld ;  and  when  thou  art  old,  and  rich, 
Thou  hast  neither  heat,  affection,  limb,  nor  beauty, 
To  make  thy  riches  pleasant.     What's  yet  in  this, 
That  bears  the  name  of  life  *     Yet  in  this  life 


382  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Lie  hid  more  thousand  deaths  :  yet  death  we  fear, 
That  makes  these  odds  all  even. 

Claud.  I  humbly  thank  yon 

To  sue  to  live,  I  find,  I  seek  to  die ; 
And,  seeking  death,  find  life  :  Let  it  come  on. 

Enter  ISABELLA. 

Tsab.  What,  ho  !     Peace  here ;  grace  and  good  company ! 

Prov.  Who's  there  ?  come  in  :  the  wish  deserves  a  welcome. 

Duke.  Dear  sir,  ere  long  I'll  visit  you  again. 

Claud.  Most  holy  sir,  I  thank  you. 

Isab.  My  business  is  a  word  or  two  with  Claudio. 

Prov.  And  very  welcome.     Look,  signior,  here's  your  sister. 

Duke.  Provost,  a  word  with  you. 

Prov.  As  many  as  you  please. 

Duke.  Bring  them  to  speak,  where  I  may  be  conceal'a, 
Yet  hear  them.  [Exeunt  DUKE  and  Provost 

Claud.  Now  sister,  what's  the  comfort  ? 

hah.  Why,  as  all  comforts  are ;  most  good  indeed. 
Lord  Angelo,  having  affairs  to  heaven. 
Intends  you  for  his  swift  embassador, 
Where  you  shall  be  an  everlasting  lieger ; 
Therefore  your  best  appointment  make  with  speed  ; 
To-morrow  you  set  on. 

Claud.  Is  there  no  remedy  ? 

Isab.  None,  but  such  remedy,  as,  to  save  a  head, 
To  cleave  a  heart  in  twain. 

Claud.  But  is  there  any  ? 

Isab.  Yes,  brother,  you  may  live ; 
There  is  a  devilish  mercy  in  the  judge, 
If  you'll  implore  it,  that  will  free  your  life, 
But  fetter  you  till  death. 

Claud.  Perpetual  durance  ? 

Isab.  Ay,  just  perpetual  durance  ;  a  restraint, 
Though  all  the  world's  vastidity  you  had, 
To  a  determin'd  scope. 

Claud.  But  in  what  nature  ? 

Isab.  In  such  a  one  as  (you  consenting  to't) 
Would  bark  your  honor  from  that  trunk  you  bear 
And  leave  y6u  naked. 

Claud.  Let  me  know  the  point. 

Isab.  O,  I  do  fear  thee,  Claudio ;  and  I  quake, 
Lest  thou  a  feverish  life  should'st  entertain, 
And  six  or  seven  winters  more  respect 
Thai:  a  perpetual  honor.     Dar'st  thou  die  ? 
The  sense  of  death  is  most  in  apprehension ; 
And  the  poor  beetle  that  we  tread  upon, 
In  corporal  sufferance  finds  a  pang  as  great, 
As  when  a  giant  dies. 


MEASURE    FOE   MEASURE. 

Claud.  Why  give  you  me  this  shame  T 

Think  yon  I  can  a  resolution  fetch 
From  flowery  tenderness  ?     If  I  must  die, 
I  will  encounter  darkness  as  a  bride, 
And  hug  it  in  mine  arms. 

Isab.  There  spake  my  brother ;  there  my  father's  gratti 
Did  utter  forth^a  voice  !     Yes,  thou  must  die : 
Thou  art  too  noble  to  conserve  a  life 
In  base  appliances.     This  outward-sainted  deputy,— 
Whose  settled  visage  and  deliberate  word 
Nips  youth  i'  the  head,  and  follies  doth  enmew, 
As  falcon  doth  the  fowl, — is  yet  a  devil. 

Claud.  The  princely  Angelo  ? 
O  heavens  !  it  cannot  be. 

Isab.  O,  were  it  but  my  life, 
I'd  throw  it  down  for  your  deliverance 
As  frankly  as  a  pin. 

Claud.  Thanks,  dear  Isabella. 

Isab.  Be  ready,  Claudio,  for  your  death  to-morrow. 

Claud.  O  Isabel ! 

Isab.  What  says  my  brother  ? 

Claud.  Death  is  a  fearful  thing. 

Isab.  And  shamed  life  a  hateful. 

Claud.  Ay,  but  to  die,  and  go  we  know  not  where ; 
To  lie  in  cold  obstruction,  and  to  rot ; 
This  sensible  warm  motion  to  become 
A  kneaded  clod ;  and  the  delighted  spirit 
To  bathe  in  fiery  floods,  or  to  reside 
In  thrilling  regions  of  thick-ribbed  ice  ; 
To  be  imprison'd  in  the  viewless  winds, 
And  blown  with  restless  violence  round  about 
The  pendent  world  ;  or  to  be  worse  than  worst 
Of  those,  that  lawless  and  incertain  thoughts 
Imagine  howling  ! — 'tis  too  horrible  ! 
The  weariest  and  most  loathed  worldly  life, 
That  age,  ache,  penury,  and  imprisonment 
Can  lay  on  nature,  is  a  paradise 
To  what  we  fear  of  death. 

Isab.  Alas  !  alas  ! 

Claud.  Sweet  sister,  let  me  live : 

What  sin  you  do  to  save  a  brother's  life, 
Nature  dispenses  with  the  deed  so  far, 
That  it  becomes  a  virtue. 

Isab.  O,  faithless  coward  !     O,  dishonest  wretch 
Take  my  defiance : 

Die ;  perish  !  might  but  my  lending  down 
Reprieve  thee  from  thy  fate,  it  should  proceed : 
['11  pray  a  thousand  prayers  for  thy  death, 
No  word  to  save  thee. 


383 


384  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Claud.  Nay,  hear  me,  Isabel. 
Isab.  O,  fye,  fye,  fye ! 

'Tis  best  that  thou  diest  quickly.  [Going. 

The  Duke  overhears  the  conversation  between  Claudio  and  his  sister,  and  touched 
with  the  virtue  and  dignity  of  Isabel's  character,  he  plans  a  mode  by  which  Claudio 
may  escape  in?  penalty  of  the  Law,  and  Angelo  shall  receive  a  well-merited  punishment 
for  his  abut*  of  power 


KING    JOHN. 


King  John,  is  the  first  of  that  series  of  Dramas,  written  by  our  Poet  to  illustrate  some 
of  the  most  important  events  in  English  history.  The  old  chroniclers  furnished  him 
with  abundant  material  for  his  labors ;  but  in  this  Play  he  has  taken  a  chronicle 
historical  Drama,  entitled  "The  Troublesome  Raigne  of  John,  King  of  England,' 
and  by  his  incomparable  powers  of  transmutation,  he  has  presented  us  with  a  vivid 
life-stirring  picture  of  the  eventful  reign  of  this,  one  of  the  weakest  monarchs  that  ever 
swayed  the  sceptre  of  England. 

The  chisf  interest  in  this  Drama,  is  centred  in  the  events  connected  with  the  Lady 
Constance  and  her  son  Arthur  ;  we  have  therefore  confined  our  selections  to  the  scenes  in 
w  hiok  their  mournful  history  is  portrayed. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 

KINO  JOHN. 

PRINCE  HENRY,  his  son  ;  afterwards  King  Henry  III. 

ARTHUR,  Duke  of  Bretagne,  son  of  Geffrey,  late  Duke  o/Bre- 

tagne,  the  elder  brother  of  King  John. 
WILLIAM  MARESHALL,  Earl  of  Pembroke. 

GEFFREY  FITZ- PETER,  Earl  of  Essex,  chief  justiciary  of  England. 
WILLIAM  LONGSWORD,  Earl  of  Salisbury. 
ROBERT  BIGOT,  Earl  of  Norfolk. 
HUBERT  DE  BURGH,  chamberlain  to  the  King. 
ROBERT  FAULCONBRIDGE,  son  of  Sir  Robert  Faulconbridge. 
PHILIP  FAULCONBRIDGE,  his  half-brother,  illegitimate  son  to  King 

Richard  the  First. 

JAMES  GURVEY,  servant  to  Lady  Faulconbridge. 
PETER,  of  Pomfret,  a^prophct. 
PHILIP,  King  of  France. 
LEWIS,  the  Dauphin. 
ARCHDUKE  of  AUSTRIA. 
Cardinal  PANDULPH,  the  Pope's  legate. 
18 


396  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

MELUN,  a  French  lord. 

CHATJLLON,  ambassador  from  France  to  King  John. 

ELINOR,  the  widow  of  King  Henry  II.,  and  mother  of  King  John. 

CONSTANCE,  mother  to  Arthur. 

BLANCH,  daughter  to  Alphonso,  King  of  Castile,  and  niece  to 

King  John. 
Lady  FAULCONBRIDGE. 
Lords,  Ladies,  Citizens   of  Angiers,  Sheriff,  Heralds,  Officers, 

Soldiers,  Messengers,  and  other  Attendants. 
SCENE. — Sometimes  in  ENGLAND,  and  sometim  8  in  FRANCE. 


ACT  III. 


We  commence  our  extracts  at  the. period  when  King  John  invades  France  with  a 
numerous  army,  to  chastise  Philip  for  espousing  the  cause  of  Prince  Arthur,  the  rightful 
heir  to  the  English  throne. 

The  contending  armies  of  England  and  France,  meet  before  the  city  of  Anglers ;  and 
after  a  battle,  in  which  each  party  claims  the  victory,  a  peace  is  declared  between  the 
Sovereigns,  to  be  cemented  by  the  marriage  of  the  French  King's  son,  to  Blanch,  the 
niece  of  John.  Philip  further  engages  to  break  his  league  with  the  Lady  Constance,  and 
her  son.  The  indignation  and  grief  of  the  widowed  mother,  is  beautifully  depicted  in  tht 
following  scene. 

SCENE. — ANGIERS.     The  French  King's  Tent. 

Enter  CONSTANCE,  ARTHUR,  and  SALISBURY. 

Const.  Gone  to  be  married  !  gone  to  swear  a  peace  ! 
False  blood  to  false  blood  join'd  !    Gone  to  be  friends ! 
Shall  Lewis  have  Blanch  ?  and  Blanch  those  provinces  ? 
It  is  not  so ;  thou  hast  mis-cpoke,  misheard ; 
Be  well  advis'd,  tell  o'er  thy  tale  again : 
It  cannot  be  ;  thou  dost  but  say,  'tis  so : 
I  trust,  I  may  not  trust  thee ;  for  thy  word 
Is  but  the  vain  breath  of  a  common  man : 
Believe  me,  I  do  not  believe  thee,  man ; 
I  have  a  king's  oath  to  the  contrary. 
Thou  shalt  be  punish'd  for  thus  frighting  me, 
For  I  am  sick,  and  capable  of  fears  ; 
Oppress'd  with  wrongs,  and  therefore  full  of  fears  • 
A  widow,  husbandless,  subject  to  fears  ; 
A  woman,  naturally  born  to  fears  ; 
And  though  thou  now  confess,  thou  didsrbut  jest, 
With  my  vex'd  spirits  I  cannot  take  a  truce, 
But  they  will  quake  and  tremble  all  this  day. 
What  dost  thou  mean  by  shaking  of  thy  head  ? 


KING   JOHN. 

Why  dost  thou  look  so  sadly  on  my  son  ? 
What  means  that  hand  upon  that  breast  of  thine  ! 
Why  holds  thine  eye  that  lamentable  rheum, 
Like  a  proud  river  peering  o'er  his  bounds  ? 
Be  these  sad  signs  confirmers  of  thy  words  ? 
Then  speak  again  ;  not  all  thy  former  tale, 
But  this  one  word,  whether  thy  tale  be  true. 

Sal.  As  true,  as,  I  believe,  you  think  them  false, 
That  give  you  cause  to  prove  my  saying  true. 

Const.  O,  if  thou  teach  me  to  believe  this  sorrow, 
Teach  thou  this  sorrow  how  to  make  me  die ; 
And  let  belief  and  life  encounter  so, 
As  doth  the  fury  of  two  desperate  men, 
Which,  in  the  very  meeting,  fall,  and  die. — 
Lewis  marry  Blanch !    O,  boy,  then  where  art  thou  ? 
France  friend  with  England  !  what  becomes  of  me  ?— 
Fellow,  begone  !    I  cannot  brook  thy  sight ; 
This  news  hath  made  thee  a  most  ugly  man. 

Sal.  What  other  harm  have  I,  good  lady,  done, 
But  spoke  the  harm  that  is  by  others  done  ? 

Const.  Which  harm  within  itself  so  heinous  is, 
As  it  makes  harmful  all  that  speak  of  it. 

Arth.  I  do  beseech  you,  madam,  be  content. 

Const.  If  thou,  that  bid'st  me  be  content,  were  grim, 
Full  of  unpleasing  blots,  and  sightless  stains, 
Lame,  foolish,  crook'd,  swart,  prodigious, 
Patch'd  with  foul  moles,  and  eye-offending  marks, 
I  would  not  care,  I  then  would  be  content ; 
For  then  I  should  not  love  thee  ;  no,  nor  thou 
Become  thy  great  birth,  nor  deserve  a  crown. 
But  thou  art  fair ;  and  at  thy  birth,  dear  boy  ! 
Nature  and  fortune  join'd  to  make  thee  great : 
Of  nature's  gifts  thou  may'st  with  lilies  boast, 
And  with  the  half-blown  rose :  but  fortune,  O  ! 
She  is  corrupted,  chang'd,  and  won  from  thee  ; 
She  adulterates  hourly  with  thine  uncle  John  ; 
And  with  her  golden  hand  hath  pluck'd  on  France 
To  tread  down  fair  respect  of  sovereignty. 
Tell  me,  thou  fellow,  is  not  France  forsworn  ? 
Envenom  him  with  words ;  or  get  thee  gone, 
And  leave  these  woes  alone,  which  I  alone, 
Am  bound  to  under-bear. 

Sal.  Pardon  me,  madam, 

I  may  not  go  without  you  to  the  kings. 

Const.  Thou  may'st,  thou  shalt,  I  will  not  go  with  thees 
I  will  instruct  my  sorrows  to  be  proud : 
For  grief  is  proud,  and  makes  his  owner  stout. 
To  me,  and  to  the  state  of  my  great  grief, 
Let  kings  assemble,  for  my  grief's  so  great, 


3*7 


388  SHAfcisPEARIAN    READER. 

That  no  supporter  but  the  huge  firm  earth 
Can  hold  it  up :  here  I  and  sorrow  sit ; 
Here  is  my  throne,  bid  kings  come  bow  to  it. 

[She  throws  herself  on  the  ground. 

Enter  KING  JOHN,  KING  PHILIP,  LEWIS,  BLANCH,  ELINOR,  FAUL- 
CONBRIDGE.  AUSTRIA,  and  Attendants. 

K.  Phi.  'Tis  true,  fair  daughter ;  and  this  blessed  day, 
Ever  in  France  shall  be  kept  festival : 
To  solemnize  this  day,  the  glorious  sun 
Stays  in  his  course,  and  plays  the  alchemist ; 
Turning,  with  splendor  of  his  precious  eye, 
The  meagre  cloddy  earth  to  glittering  gold  : 
The  yearly  course,  that  brings  this  day  about, 
Shall  never  see  it  but  a  holyday. 

Const.  A  wicked  day,  and  not  a  holyday  ! —  [Rising, 

What  hath  this  day  deserv'd  ?  what  hath  it  done : 
That  it  in  golden  letters  should  be  set, 
Among  the  high  tides,  in  the  calendar  ? 
Nay,  neither,  turn  this  day  out  of  the  week  ; 
This  day  of  shame,  oppression,  perjury : 
This  day,  all  things  begun  come  to  ill  end ; 
Yet,  faith  itself  to  hollow  falsehood  change  ! 

K.  Phi.  By  heaven,  lady,  you  shall  have  no  cause 
To  curse  the  fair  proceedings  of  this  day : 
Have  I  not  pawn'd  to  you  my  majesty  ? 

Const.  You  have  beguil'd  me  with  a  counterfeit 
Resembling  majesty  ;  which,  being  touch'd,  and  tried, 
Proves  valueless  :  You  are  forsworn,  forsworn ; 
You  came  in  arms  to  spill  mine  enemies'  blood, 
But  now  in  arms,  you  strengthen  it  with  yours  : 
The  grappling  vigir  and  rough  frown  of  war, 
Is  cold  in  amity  and  painted  peace, 
And  our  oppression  hath  made  up  this  league  : — 
Arm,  arm,  you  heavens,  against  these  perjured  kings ! 
A  widow  cries ;  be  husband  to  me,  heavens  ! 
Let  not  the  hours  of  this  ungodly  day 
Wear  out  the  day  in  peace  ;  but,  ere  sunset. 
Set  armed  discord  'twixt  these  perjur'd  kings ! 
Hear  me,  O,  hear  me  ! 

Aust.  Lady  Constance,  peace. 

Const.  War !  war  !  no  peace  !  peace  is  to  me  a  war. 
O  Lymoges  !  O  Austria  !  thou  dost  shame 
That  bloody  spoil :  Thou  slave,  thou  wretch,  thou  coward  ; 
Thou  little  valiant,  great  in  villany ! 
Thou  ever  strong  upon  the  stronger  side  ! 
Thou  fortune's  champion,  that  dost  never  fight 
But  when  her  humorous  ladyship  is  by 
To  teach  thee  safety  !  Thou  cold-blooded  slave, 


KING   JOHN.  389 

Hast  tnou  not  spoke  like  thunder  on  my  side  ? 

Been  sworn  my  soldier  ?  bidding  me  depend 

Upon  thy  stars,  thy  fortune,  and  thy  strength  ? 

And  dost  thou  now  fall  over  to  my  foes  ? 

Thou  wear  a  lion's  hide  !  doff  it  for  shame, 

And  hang  a  calf's-skin  on  those  recreant  limbs. 

Ausl.  O,  that  a  man  should  speak  those  words  to  me  ! 
Paul.  And  hang  a  calf  s-skin  on  those  recreant  limbs, 
Aust.  Thou  dar'st  not  say  so,  villain,  for  thy  life. 
Paul.  And  hang  a  calf's-skin  on  those  recreant  limbs.  - 
K.  John.  We  like  not  this  ;  thou  dost  forget  thyself. 

Enter  PANDULPH. 

K.  Phi.  Here  comes  the  holy  legate  of  the  pope. 

Pand.  Hail,  you  anointed  deputies  of  heaven  ! 
To  thee,  king  John,  my  holy  errand  is. 
I,  Pand ul  ph,  of  fair  Milan  cardinal, 
And  from  pope  Innocent  the  legate  here, 
Do,  in  his  name,  religiously  demand, 
Why  thou  against  the  church,  our  holy  mother, 
»So  wilfully  dost  spurn  ;  and,  force  perforce, 
Keep  Stephen  Langton,  chosen  archbishop 
Of  Canterbury,  from  that  holy  see  ? 
This,  in  our  'foresaid  holy  father's  name, 
Pope  Innocent,  I  do  demand  of  thee. 

K.  John.  What  earthly  name  to  interrogatories, 
Can  task  the  free  breath  of  a  sacred  king  ? 
Thou  canst  not,  cardinal,  devise  a  name 
So  slight,  unworthy,  and  ridiculous, 
To  charge  me  to  an  answer,  as  the  pope. 
Tell  him  this  tale ;  and  from  the  rnouth  of  Englavd, 
Add  thus  much  more, — That  no  Italian  priest 
Shall  tithe  or  toll  in  our  dominions ; 
But  as  we  under  heaven  are  supreme  head, 
So,  under  him,  that  great  supremacy, 
Where  we  do  reign,  we  will  alone  uphold, 
Without  the  assistance  of  a  mortal  hand  : 
So  tell  the  pope ;  all  reverence  set  apart, 
To  him,  and  his  usurp'd  authority. 

K.  Phi.  Brother  of  England,  you  blaspheme  in  this. 

K.  John.  Though  you,  and  all  the  kings  of  Christendom 
Are  led  so  grossly  by  this  meddling  priest, 
Dreading  the  curse  that  money  may  buy  out ; 
And,  by  the  merit  of  vile  gold,  dross,  dust, 
Purchase  corrupted  pardon  of  a  man, 
Who,  in  that  sale,  sells  pardon  from  himself; 
Though  you,  and  all  the  rest,  so  grossly  led, 
This  juggling  witchcraft  with  revenue  cherish ; 


390  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Yet  I,  alono,  alone  do  me  oppose 

Against  the  pope,  and  count  his  friends  my  foes. 

Pand.  Then  by  the  lawful  power  that  I  have, 
Thou  shalt  stand  curs'd,  and  excommunicate  : 
And  blessed  shall  he  be,  that  doth  revolt 
From  his  allegiance  to  an  heretic ; 
And  meritorious  shall  that  hand  be  call'd, 
Canoniz'd,  and  worship'd  as  a  saint, 
That  takes  away  by  any  secret  course 
Thy  hateful  life. 

Const.  O,  lawful  let  it  be, 

That  I  have  room  with  Rome  to  curse  awhile ! 
Good  father  cardinal,  cry  thou,  amen, 
To  my  keen  curses  :  for,  without  my  wrong, 
There  is  no  tongue  hath  power  to  curse  him  right. 

Pand.  There's  law  and  warrant,  lady,  for  my  curse. 

Canst.  And  for  mine  too ;  when  law  can  do  no  right, 
Let  it  be  lawful,  that  law  bar  no  wrong : 
Law  cannot  give  my  child  his  kingdom  here  ; 
For  he,  that  holds  his  kingdom,  holds  the  law  : 
Therefore,  since  law  itself  is  perfect  wrong, 
How  can  the  law  forbid  my  tongue  to  curse  ? 

Pand.  Philip  of  France,  on  peril  of  a  curse, 
Let  go  the  hand  of  that  arch-heretic  ; 
(Vnd  raise  the  power  of  France  upon  his  head, 
Jnless  he  do  submit  himself  to  Rome. 

Eli.  Look'st  thou  pale,  France  ?  do  not  let  go  thy  hand 

Aust.  King  Philip,  listen  to  the  cardinal. 

K.  John.  Philip,  what  say'st  thou  to  the  cardinal  ? 

Const.  What  should  he  say,  but  as  the  cardinal  ? 

K.  Phi.  Good  reverend  father,  make  my  person  youra, 
And  tell  me,  how  you  would  bestow  yourself. 
This  royal  hand  and  mine  are  newly  knit : 
And  shall  these  hands,  so  lately  purg'd  of  blood, 
So  newly  joined  in  love,  so  strong  in  both, 
Unyoke  this  seizure,  and  this  kind  regreet  ? 
Play  fast  and  loose  with  faith  ?  so  jest  with  heaven, 
Make  such  unconstant  children  of  ourselves, 
As  now  again  to  snatch  our  palm  from  palm  ; 
Unswear  faith  sworn  ;  and  on  the  marriage  bed 
Of  smiling  peace  to  march  a  bloody  host, 
And  make  a  riot  on  the  gentle  brow 
Of  true  sincerity  ?     O  holy  sir, 
My  reverend  father,  let  it  not  be  so : 
Out  of  your  grace,  devise,  ordain,  impose 
Some  gentle  order ;  and  then  we  shall  be  bless'd 
To  do  your  pleasure,  and  continue  friends. 

Pand.  All  form  is  formless,  order  orderless, 
Save  what  is  opposite  to  England's  love. 


KING  JOHN.  391 

Therefore,  to  arms,  be  champion  of  our  church ! 

Or  let  the  church,  our  mother,  breathe  her  curse, 

A  mother's  curse,  on  her  revolting  son. 

France,  thou  may'st  hold  a  serpent  by  the  tongue, 

A  cased  lion  by  the  mortal  paw, 

A  fasting  tiger  safer  by  the  tooth, 

Than  keep  in  peace  that  hand  which  thou  dost  hold. 

K.  Phi.  I  may  disjoin  my  hand,  but  not  my  faith. 

ParuL  So  makest  thou  faith  an  enemy  to  faith  ; 
And,  like  a  civil  war,  set'st  oath  to  oath, 
Thy  tongue  against  thy  tongue.     O  let  thy  vow 
First  made  to  heaven,  first  be  to  heaven  perform'd  ; 
That  is,  to  be  the  champion  of  our  church  ! 
But,  if  not,  then  know, 
The  peril  of  our  curses  light  on  thee  ; 
So  heavy,  as  thou  shalt  not  shake  them  off, 
But,  in  despair,  die  under  their  black  weight. 

Aust.  Rebellion,  flat  rebellion  ! 

Paul  Will  't  not  be  ? 

Will  not  a  calf 's-skin  stop  that  mouth  of  thine  ? 

Lew.  Father,  to  arms  ! 

Blanch.  Upon  thy  wedding  day  ? 

Against  the  blood  that  thou  hast  married  ? 

0  husband,  hear  me  ! — even  for  that  name, 
Which  till  this  time  my  tongue  did  ne'er  pronounce, 
Upon  my  knee  I  beg,  go  not  to  arms 

Against  mine  uncle. 

Const.  O,  upon  my  knee, 

Made  hard  with  kneeling,  I  do  pray  to  thee, 
Thou  virtuous  Dauphin,  alter  not  the  doom 
Fore-thought  by  heaven. 

Blanch.  Now  shall  I  see  thy  love ;  What  motive  may 
Be  stronger  with  thee  than  the  name  of  wife  ? 

Const.  That  which  upholdeth  him  that  thee  upholds, 
His  honor :  O,  thine  honor,  Lewis,  thine  honor  ! 

Lew.  I  muse,  your  majesty  doth  seem  so  cold, 
When  such  profound  respects  do  pull  you  on. 

Pand.  I  will  denounce  a  curse  upon  his  head. 

K.  Phi.  Thou  shalt  not  need  :  England,  I'll  fall  from  thee. 

Const.  O  fair  return  of  banish'd  majesty  ! 

Eli.  O  foul  revolt  of  French  inconstancy  ! 

K.  John.  France,  thou  shalt  rue  this  hour  within  this  hour. 

Blanch.  The  sun's  o'ercast  with  blood  :  Fair  day,  adieu  1 
Which  is  the  side  that  I  must  go  withal  ? 

1  am  with  both  :  each  army  hath  a  hand  ; 
And,  in  their  rage,  I  having  hold  of  both, 
They  whirl  asunder,  and  dismember  me. 
Husband,  I  cannot  pray  that  thou  may'st  win ; 
Uncle,  I  needs  must  pray  that  thou  may'st  los« 


392  SHAKSPEAMAN    READER. 

Father.  I  may  not  wish  the  fortune  thine ; 
Grandam,  I  will  not  wish  thy  wishes  thrive. 
Whoever  wins,  on  that  side  shall  I  lose  ; 
Assured  loss,  before  the  match  be  play'd 

Lew.  Lady,  with  me ;  with  me  thy  fortune  lies. 

Blanch.  There  where  my  fortune  lives,  there  my  life  dies. 

K.  John.  Cousin,  go  draw  our  puissance  together. — 

[Exit  PAUL, 

France,  I  am  burn'd  up  with  inflaming  wrath ; 
A  rage,  whose  heat  hath  this  condition, 
That  nothing  can  allay,  nothing  but  blood, 
The  blood,  and  dearest  valu'd  blood,  of  France. 

K.  Phi.  Thy  rage  shall  bum  thee  up,  and  thou  shalt  turn 
To  ashes,  ere  our  blood  shall  quench  that  fire : 
Look  to  thyself,  thou  art  in  jeopardy. 

K.  John.  No  more  than  he  that  threats. — To  arms  let's  hie  ! 

[Exeunt. 

A  battle  ensues  between  the  French  and  English  forces,  and  Arthur  is  taken  prisoner 
by  King  John. 

SCENE. — Plains  near  Angiers. 

Alarums ;  Excursions ;  Retreat.     Enter  KING  JOHN,  ELINOR,  AR- 
THUR, FAULCONBRIDGE,  HUBERT,  and  Lords. 

K.  John.  So  shall  it  be  ;  your  grace  shall  stay  behind, 

[To  ELINOR. 

So  strongly  guarded. — Cousin,  look  not  sad :  [To  ARTHUR. 

Thy  grandam  loves  thee  ;  and  thy  uncle  will 
^As  dear  be  to  thee  as  thy  father  was. 

Arth.  O,  this  will  make  my  mother  die  with  grief. 

K.  John.  Cousin, — [to   FAULCONBRIDGE.] — away    for    England 

haste  before : 

And,  ere  our  coming,  see  thou  shake  the  bags 
Of  hoarding  abbots ;  imprison'd  angels 
Set  thou  at  liberty :  the  fat  ribs  of  peace 
Must  by  the  hungry 'now  be  fed  upon  : 
Use  our  commission  in  its  utmost  force. 

Paul.  Bell,  book,  and  candle  shall  not  drive  me  back, 
When  gold  and  silver  becks  me  to  come  on. 
I  leave  your  highness  : — Grandam,  I  will  pray 
(If  ever  I  remember  to  be  holy,) 
For  your  fair  safety  ;  so  I  kiss  your  hand. 

Eli.  Farewell,  my  gentle  cousin. 

K.  John.  Coz,  farewell.       [Exit  FAULCONBRIDGE, 

Eli.  Come  hither,  little  kinsman  ;  hark,  a  word. 

[She  takes  ARTHUR  aside, 

K.  John.  Come  hither,  Hubert.     O  my  gentle  Hubert, 
We  owe  thee  much  ;  within  this  wall  of  flesh 
There  is  a  soul,  counts  thee  her  creditor, 


KING   JOHN.  303 

And  with  advantage  means  to  pay  thy  love : 
And,  my  good  friend,  thy  voluntary  oath 
Lives  in  this  bosom,  dearly  cherished. 
Give  me  thy  hand.     I  had  a  thing  to  say, — 
But  I  will  fit  it  with  some  better  time. 
By  heaven,  Hubert,  I  am  almost  asham'd 
To  say  what  good  respect  I  have  of  thee. 

Hub,  1  am  much  bounden  to  your  majesty. 

./if.  John.  Good  friend,  thou  hast  no  cause  to  say  so  yet : 
But  thou  shalt  have :  and  creep  time  ne'er  so  slow, 
Yet  it  shall  come,  for  me  to  do  thee  good. 
I  had  a  thing  to  say, — But  let  it  go : 
The  sun  is  in  the  heaven,  and  the  proud  day, 
Attended  with  the  pleasures  of  the  world, 
Is  all  too  wanton,  and  too  full  of  gawds, 
To  give  me  audience  : — If  the  midnight  bell 
Did  with  his  iron  tongue  and  brazen  mouth, 
Sound  one  unto  the  drowsy  race  of  night; 
If  this  same  were  a  church-yard  where  we  stand, 
And  thou  possessed  with  a  thousand  wrongs ; 
Or  if  that  surly  spirit,  melancholy, 
Had  bak'd  thy  blood,  and  made  it  heavy,  thick ; 
(Which,  else,  runs  tickling  up  and  down  the  veins, 
Making  that  idiot,  laughter,  keep  men's  eyes, 
And  strain  their  cheeks  to  idle  merriment, 
A  passion  hateful  to  my  purposes ;) 
Or  if  that  thou  could'st  see  me  without  eyes, 
Hear  me  without  thine  ears,  and  make  reply 
Without  a  tongue,  using  conceit  alone, 
Without  eyes,  ears,  and  harmful  sound  of  words; 
Then,  in  despite  of  brooded,  watchful  day, 
I  would  into  thy  bosom  pour  my  thoughts : 
But  ah,  I  will  not :— Yet  I  love  thee  well ; 
And,  by  my  troth,  I  think,  thou  lov'st  me  well. 

Hub.  So  well,  that  what  you  bid  me  undertake, 
Though  that  my  death  were  adjunct  to  my  act, 
By  heaven,  I'd  do't. 

K.  John.  Do  not  I  know,  thou  would'st  1 

Good  Hubert,  Hubert,  Hubert,  throw  thine  eye 
On  yon  young  boy ;  I'll  tell  thee  what,  my  friend, 
He  is  a  very  serpent  in  my  way : 
And,  wheresoe'er  this  foot  of  mine  doth  tread, 
He  lies  before  me :  Dost  thou  understand  me  ? 
Thou  art  his  keeper. 

Hub.  And  I  will  keep  him  so, 

That  he  shall  not  offend  your  majesty. 

K.  John.  Death. 

Hub.  My  lord  ? 

K.  John.  A  grai'9. 


394  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Ht'J>.  He  shall  not  live. 

K.  John.  Enough. 

I  could  be  merry  now :  Hubert,  I  love  thee. 
Well,  I'll  not  say  what  I  intend  for  thee : 

Remember. Madam,  fare  you  well : 

I'll  send  those  powers  o'er  to  your  majesty. 

Eli.  My  blessing  go  with  thee  ! 

K.  John.  For  England,  cousin,  go  : 

Hubert  shall  be  your  man,  attend  on  you 
With  all  true  duty. — On  toward  Calais,  ho !  [Exeunt 

SCENE.— The  French  King's  Tent. 
Enter  KING  PHILIP,  LEWIS,  PANDULPH,  and  Attendants. 

K.  Phi.  So,  by  a  roaring  tempest  on  the  flood, 
A  whole  armado  of  convicted  sail 
Is  scatter' J  and  disjoin'd  from  fellowship. 

Pand.  Courage  and  comfort !  all  shall  yet  go  well. 

K.  Phi.  What  can  go  well,  when  we  have  run  so  ill  ? 
Are  we  not  beaten  ?     Is  not  Angiers  lost  ? 
Arthur  ta'en  prisoner  ?  divers  dear  friends  slain : 
And  bloody  England  into  England  gone, 
O'erbearing  interruption,  spite  of  France  ? 

Lew.  What  he  hath  won,  that  hath  he  fortified : 
So  hot  a  speed  with  such  advice  dispos'd, 
Such  temperate  order  in  so  fierce  a  cause, 
Doth  want  example :  Who  hath  read,  or  heard, 
Of  any  kindred  action  like  to  this  ? 

K.  Phi.  Well  could  I  bear  that  England  had  this  praise, 
So  we  could  find  some  pattern  of  our  shame. 

Enter  CONSTANCE. 

Look,  who  comes  here  !  a  grave  unto  a  soul ; 
Holding  the  eternal  spirit,  against  her  will, 
In  the  vile  prison  of  afflicted  breath  :— 
I  pr'ythee,  lady,  go  away  with  me. 

Const.  Lo,  now  !  now  see  the  issue  of  your  peace  ! 

K.  Phi.  Patience,  good  lady !  comfort,  gentle  Constance ! 

Const.  No,  I  defy  all  counsel,  all  redress, 
But  that  which  ends  all  counsel,  true  redress, 
Death,  death : — O  amiable,  lovely  death  ! 
Arise  forth  from  the  couch  of  lasting  night, 
Thou  hate  and  terror  to  prosperity, 
And  I  will  kiss  thy  detestable  bones ; 
Come,  grin  on  me  ;  and  I  will  think  thou  smil'st, 
And  buss  thee  as  thy  wife !     Misery's  love, 
O,  come  to  me  ! 

K.  Phi.  O  fair  affliction,  peace. 

Const.  No,  no,     will  not,  having  breath  to  cry  :— 


KING   JOHN.  895 

O,  that  my  tongue  were  in  the  thunder's  mouth ! 
Then  with  a  passion  would  I  shake  the  world ; 
And  rouse  from  sleep  that  fell  anatomy, 
Which  cannot  hear  a  lady's  feeble  voice, 
Which  scorns  a  modern  invocation. 

Pand.  Lady,  you  utter  madness,  and  not  sorrow. 

Const.  Thou  art  not  holy  to  belie  me  so ; 
I  am  not  mad  :  this  hair  I  tear  is  mine  ; 
My  name  is  Constance  ;  I  was  Geffrey's  wife , 
Young  Arthur  is  my  son,  and  he  is  lost : 
I  am  not  mad  ; — T  would  to  heaven  I  were  ! 
For  then,  'tis  like  I  should  forget  myself: 
O,  if  I  could,  what  grief  should  I  forget ! — 
Preach  some  philosophy  to  make  me  mad, 
And  thou  shalt  be  canoniz'd,  cardinal ; 
For,  being  not  mad,  but  sensible  of  grief, 
My  reasonable  part  produces  reason 
How  I  may  be  deliver'd  of  these  woes, 
And  teaches  me  to  kill  or  hang  myself: 
If  I  were  mad,  I  should  forget  my  son ; 
I  am  not  mad ;  too  well,  too  well  I  feel 
The  different  plague  of  each  calamity. 

K.  Phi.  Bind  up  those  tresses : 
Sticking  together  in  calamity. 

Const.  To  England,  if  you  will. 

K.  Phi.  Bind  up  your  hairs. 

Const.  Yes,  that  I  will ;  And  wherefore  will  I  do  it  ? 
I  tore  them  from  their  bonds  ;  and  cried  aloud, 
O  thai  these  hands  could  so  redeem  my  son, 
As  they  have  given  these  hairs  their  liberty  ! 
But  now  I  envy  at  their  liberty, 
And  will  again  commit  them  to  their  bonds, 

Because  my  poor  child  is  a  prisoner.: . 

And,  father  cardinal,  I  have  heard  you  say 

That  we  shall  see  and  know  our  friends  in  neaven  • 

If  that  be  true,  I  shall  see  my  boy  again ; 

For,  since  the  birth  of  Cain,  the  first  male  child, 

To  him  that  did  but  yesterday  suspire, 

There  was  not  such  a  gracious  creature  born 

But  now  will  canker  sorrow  eat  my  bud, 

And  chase  the  native  beauty  from  his  cheek, 

And  he  wfti  look  as  hollow  as  a  ghost ; 

As  dim  and  meagre  as  an  ague's  fit ; 

A.nd  so  he'll  die  ;  and,  rising  so  again, 

When  I  shall  meet  him  in  the  court  of  heaven 

[  shall  not  know  him  :  therefore  never,  never 

Must  I  behold  my  pretty  Arthur  more. 

Pand.  You  hold  too  heinous  a  respect  of  grief . 

Const.  He  talks  to  me,  that  never  had  a  son. 


396  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

jfiT.  Phi.  You  are  as  fond  of  grief,  as  of  your  child. 

Const.  Grief  fills  the  room  up  of  my  absent  child, 
Lies  in  his  bed,  walks  up  and  down  with  me ; 
Puts  on  his  pretty  looks,  repeats  his  words, 
Remembers  me  of  all  his  gracious  parts. 
Stuffs  out  his  vacant  garments  with  his  form ; 
Then,  have  I  reason  to  be  fond  of  grief. 
Fare  you  well :  had  you  such  a  loss  as  I, 

I  coufd  give  better  comfort  than  you  do. 

I  will  not  keep  this  form  upon  my  head, 

[  Tearing  off  her  head-dress 
When  there  is  such  disorder  in  my  wit. 
O  lord  !  my  boy,  my  Arthur,  my  fair  son  ! 
My  life,  my  joy,  my  food,  my  all  the  world  ! 

My  widow-comfort,  and  my  sorrows'  cure  !  [Exit. 

K.  Phi.  I  fear  some  outrage,  and  I'll  follow  her.  [ Exit. 


ACT  IV. 

Arthur  is  conveyed  to  Esgland,  where  he  is  imprisoned  in  Northampton  Castle 
Hubert  is  appointed  his  keeper,  with  instructions  from  King  John  to  find  some  means 
secretly,  to  deprive  the  young  Prince  of  his  life. 

SCENE  I.— Northampton.     A  Room  in  the  Castle. 
Enter  HUBERT,  and  Two  Attendants. 

Hub.  Heat  me  these  irons  hot ;  and,  look  thou  stand 
Within  the  arras  :  when  I  strike  my  foot 
Upon  the  bosom  of  the  ground,  rush  forth : 
And  bind  the  boy,  which  you  shall  find  with  rne, 
Fast  to  the  chair :  be  heedful :  hence,  and  watch. 

1st  Attend.  I  hope  your  warrant  will  bear  out  the  deed. 

Hub.  Uncleanly  scruples  !     Fear  not  you :  Look  to't. 

[Exeunt  Attendants 
Young  lad,  come  forth  ;  I  have  to  say  with  you. 

Enter  ARTHUR. 

Arth.  Good  morrow,  Hubert. 

Hub.  Good  morrow,  little  prince. 

Arth.  As  little  prince  (having  so  great  a  title 
To  be  more  prince)  as  may  be.     You  are  sad. 

Hub.  Indeed,  I  have  been  merrier. 

Arth.  Mercy  on  me  ! 

Methinks,  nobody  should  be  sad  but  I : 
Yet,  I  remember,  when  I  was  in  France, 
Young  gentlemen  would  be  as  sad  as  night, 
Only  for  wantonness.     By  my  Christendom, 
So  I  were  out  of  prison,  and  kept  sheep, 


KING   JOHN.  397 

I  should  be  as  merry  as  the  day  is  long ; 

And  so  I  would  be  here,  but  that  I  doubt 

My  uncle  practises  more  harm  to  me  : 

He  is  afraid  of  me,  and  I  of  him  : 

Is  it  my  fault  that  I  was  Geffrey's  son  ? 

No,  indeed,  is't  not ;  And,  I  would  to  heaven, 

I  were  your  son,  so  you  would  love  me,  Hubert. 

Hub.  If  I  talk  to  him,  with  his  innocent  prate 
He  will  awake  my  mercy,  which  lies  dead : 
Therefore  I  will  be  sudden  and  dispatch.  [Aside. 

Arth.  Are  you  sick,  Hubert  ?  you  look  pale  to-day  : 
In  sooth,  I  would  you  were  a  little  sick  ; 
That  I  might  sit  all  night,  and  watch  with  you  : 
I  warrant,  I  love  you  more  than  you  do  me. 

Hub.  His  words  do  take  possession  of  my  bosom. — Read  here, 
young  Arthur. — [Showing  a  paper.] — How  now,  foolish  rheum  ! 

[Aside. 

Turning  dispiteous  torture  out  of  door ! 
I  must  be  brief;  lest  resolution  drop 

Out  at  mine  eyes,  in  tender  womanish  tears. 

Can  you  not  read  it  ?  is  it  not  fair  writ  ? 

Arth.  Too  fairly,  Hubert,  for  so  foul  effect : 
Must  you  with  hot  irons  burn  out  both  mine  eyes  ? 

Hub.  Young  boy,  I  must. 

Arth.  And  will  you  ? 

Hub.  And  I  will. 

Arth.  Have  you  the  heart  ?     When  your  head  did  but  acha, 
I  knit  my  handkerchief  about  your  brows, 
(The  best  I  had,  a  princess  wrought  it  for  me,) 
And  1  did  never  ask  it  you  again  : 
And  with  my  hand  at  midnight  held  your  head  ; 
And,  like  the  watchful  minutes  to  the  hour, 
Still  and  anon  cheer'd  up  the  heavy  time ; 
Saying,  What  lack  you  ?  and,  Where  lies  your  griel  ? 
Or,  what  good  love  may  I  perform  for  you  ? 
Many  a  poor  man's  son  would  have  lain  still, 
And  ne'er  have  spoke  a  loving  word  to  you ; 
But  you  at  your  sick  service  had  a  prince. 
Nay,  you  may  think,  my  love  was  crafty  love, 
And  call  it  cunning  ;  Do,  an  if  you  will : 
if  heaven  be  pleased  that  you  must  use  me  ill, 
Why,  then  you  must. — Will  you  put  out  mine  eyes  ? 
These  eyes,  that  never  did,  nor  never  shall, 
So  much  as  frown  on  you  ? 

Hub.  I  have  sworn  to  do  it ; 

And  with  hot  irons  must  I  burn  them  out. 

Arth.  Ah,  none,  but  in  this  iron  age,  would  do  it ! 
The  iron  of  itself,  though  heat  red-hot, 
Approaching  near  these  eyes,  would  drink  my  tears. 


898  SHAKSPEARIAN   READER. 

And  quench  his  fiery  indignation, 
Even  in  the  matter  of  mine  innocence : 
Nay,  after  that,  consume  away  in  rust, 
But  for  containing  fire  to  harm  mine  eye. 
Are  you  more  stubborn-hard  than  hammer'd  iron  ? 
An  if  an  angel  should  have  come  to  me, 
And  told  me,  Hubert  should  put  out  mine  eyes, 
I  would  not  have  believ'd  no  tongue,  but  Hubert's. 
Hub.  Come  forth.  [Stamps 

Re-enter  Attendants,  with  cords,  irons,  <SfC. 

Do  as  I  bid  you  do. 

Arth.  O,  save  me,  Hubert,  save  me !  my  eyes  are  ont> 
Even  with  the  fierce  looks  of  these  bloody  men. 

Hub.  Give  me  the  iron,  I  say,  and  bind  him  here. 

Arth.  Alas,  what  need  you  be  so  boisterous-rough  ? 
I  will  not  struggle,  I  will  stand  stone-still. 
For  heaven's  sake,  Hubert,  let  me  not  be  bound  ! 
Nay,  hear  me,  Hubert !  drive  these  men  away, 
And  I  will  sit  as  quiet  as  a  lamb  ; 
1  will  not  stir,  nor  wince,  nor  speak  a  word, 
Nor  look  upon  the  iron  angerly  : 
Thrust  but  these  men  away,  and  I'll  forgive  you, 
Whatever  torment  you  do  put  me  to. 

Hub.  Go,  stand  within ;  let  me  alone  with  him. 

1st  Attend.  I  am  best  pleas'd  to  be  from  such  a  deed. 

[Exeunt  Attendants. 

Arth.  Alas  !  I  then  have  chid  away  my  friend ; 
He  hath  a  stern  look,  but  a  gentle  heart : — 
Let  him  come  back,  that  his  compassion  may 
Give  life  to  yours. 

Hub.  Come,  boy,  prepare  yourself. 

Arth.  Is  there  no  remedy  ? 

Hub.  None,  but  to  lose  your  eyes 

Arth.  O  heaven  ! — that  there  were  but  a  mote  in  yours, 
A  grain,  a  dust,  a  gnat,  a  wand'ring  hair, 
Any  annoyance  in  that  precious  sense  ! 
Then,  feeling  what  small  things  are  boist'rous  there, 
Your  vile  intent  must  needs  seem  horrible. 

Hub.  Is  this  your  promise  ?  go  to,  hold  your  tongue. 

Arth.  Hubert,  the  utterance  of  a  brace  of  tongues 
Must  needs  want  pleading  for  a  pair  of  eyes  : 
Let  me  not  hold  my  tongue ;  let  me  not,  Hubert ! 
Or,  Hubert,  if  you  will,  cut  out  my  tongue, 
So  I  may  keep  mine  eyes ;  O,  spare  mine  eyes ; 
Though  to  no  use,  but  still  to  look  on  you  ! 
Lo,  by  my  troth,  the  instrument  is  cold, 
And  would  not  harm  me. 

Hub.  I  can  heat  it,  boy. 


KING   JOHN.  399 

Arth.  No,  in  good  sooth  ;  the  fire  is  dead  with  grief, 
Being  create  for  comfort,  to  be  us'd 
In  undeserv'd  extremes  :  See  else  yourself; 
There  is  no  malice  in  this  burning  coal ; 
The  breath  of  heaven  hath  blown  his  spirit  out, 
And  strew'd  repentant  ashes  on  his  head. 

Hub.  But  with  my  breath  I  can  revive  it,  boy. 

Arth.  And  if  you  do,  you  will  but  make  it  blush, 
And  glow  with  shame  of  your  proceedings,  Hubert : 
Nay,  it,  perchance,  will  sparkle  in  your  eyes ; 
And,  like  a  dog  that  is  compell'd  to  fight, 
Snatch  at  his  master  that  doth  tarre  him  on. 
All  things,  that  you  should  use  to  do  me  wrong, 
Deny  their  office  :  only  you  do  lack 
That  mercy,  which  fierce  fire,  and  iron  extends, 
Creatures  of  note,  for  mercy-lacking  uses. 

Hub.  Well,  see  to  live,  I  will  not  touch  thine  eyes, 
For  all  the  treasure  that  thine  uncle  owes  : 
Yet  T  am  sworn,  and  I  did  purpose,  boy, 
With  this  same  very  iron  to  burn  them  out. 

Arth.  O,  now  you  look  like  Hubert ! 
You  were  disguised. 

Hub.  Peace  :  no  more.     Adieu. 

Your  uncle  must  not  know  but  you  are  dead : 
I'll  fill  these  dogged  spies  with  false  reports. 
And,  pretty  child,  sleep  doubtless,  and  secure, 
That  Hubert,  for  the  wealth  of  all  the  world, 
Will  riot  offend  thee. 

Arth.  O  heaven ! — I  thank  you,  Hubert. 

Hub.  Silence  ;  no  more :  Go  closely  in  with  me. 
Much  danger  do  I  undergo  for  thee.    "  [Sxeunf. 

King  John  is  crowned  the  second  time,  in  hopes  to  give  assurance,  by  this  doubl* 
coronation,  of  his  title  to  the  English  crown.  The  Nobles  and  People  are  disaffected, 
and  Philip  breaks  the  league,  and  prepares  to  invade  England.  John,  alarmed  at  hu 
position,  repents  of  his  conduct  towards  young  Arthur,  and  accuses  his  confidant,  Hubert, 
with  tempting  him  to  accede  to  the  murder. 

SCENE  II.— A  Room  of  State  in  the  Palace. 

finter  KING  JOHN,  crowned;  PEMBROKE,  SALISBURY,  and  other  Lords. 
The  KING  takes  his  State. 

K.  John.  Here  once  again  we  sit,  once  again  crown'd, 
And  look'd  upon,  I  hope,  with  cheerful  eyes. 

Pern.  This  once  again,  but  that  your  highness  pleas'd, 
Was  once  superfluous :  you  were  crown'd  before, 
And  that  high  royalty  was  ne'er  pluck'd  off; 
The  faiths  of  men  ne'er  stained  with  revolt ; 
Fresh  expectation  troubled  not  the  land, 


400  SIIAKSPEAR1AN    READER. 

With  any  long'd-for  change,  or  better  state. 

Sal.  Therefore,  to  be  possess'd  with  double  pomp, 
To  guard  a  title  that  was  rich  before, 
To  gild  refined  gold,  to  paint  the  lily, 
To  throw  a  perfume  on  the  violet, 
To  smooth  the  ice,  or  add  another  hue 
Unto  the  rainbow,  or  with  taper-light 
To  seek  the  beauteous  eye  of  heaven  to  garnish, 
Is  wasteful,  and  ridiculous  excess. 

Pern.  But  that  your  royal  pleasure  must  be  done 
This  act  is  as  an  ancient  tale  new  told ; 
And,  in  the  last  repeating,  troublesome, 
Being  urged  at  a  time  unseasonable. 

Sal.  In  this,  the  antique  and  well-noted  face 
Of  plain  old  form  is  much  disfigured  ; 
And,  like  a  shifted  wind  unto  a  sail, 
It  makes  the  course  of  thoughts  to  fetch  about ; 
Startles  and  frights  consideration  ; 
Makes  sound  opinion  sick,  and  truth  suspected, 
For  putting  on  so  new  a  fashion'd  robe. 

Pern.  When  workmen  strive  to  do  better  than  well, 
They  do  confound  their  skill  in  covetousness : 
And,  oftentimes,  excusing  of  a  fault, 
Doth  make  the  fault  the  worse  by  the  excuse ; 
As  patches,  set  upon  a  little  breach, 
Discredit  more  in  hiding  of  the  fault, 
Than  did  the  fault  before  it  was  so  patch'd. 

SaL  To  this  effect,  before  you  were  new-crown'd, 
We  breath'd  our  counsel :  but  it  pleas'd  your  highneae 
To  overbear  it ;  and  we  are  all  well  pleas'd ; 
Since  all  and  every  part  of  what  we  would, 
Doth  make  a  stand  at  what  your  highness  will. 

K.John.  Some  reasons  of  this  double  coronation 
I  have  possess'd  you  with,  and  think  them  strong ; 
And  more,  more  strong,  (when  lesser  is  my  fear,) 
I  shall  indue  you  with :  Meantime,  but  ask 
What  you  would  have  reform'd,  that  is  not  well ; 
And  well  shall  you  perceive,  how  willingly 
I  will  both  hear  and  grant  you  your  requests. 

Pern.  Then  I,  (as  one  that  am  the  tongue  of  theso 
To  sound  the  purposes  of  all  their  hearts,) 
Both  for  myself  and  them,  (but,  chief  of  all, 
Your  safety,  for  the  which  myself  and  them 
Bend  their  best  studies,)  heartily  request 
The  enfranchisement  of  Arthur  :  whose  restraint 
Doth  move  the  murmuring  lips  of  discontent. 
To  break  into  this  dangerous  argument, — 
If,  what  in  rest  you  have,  in  right  you  hold, 
Why  then  your  fears,  (which,  as  they  say,  attend 


KING   JOHN.  401 

The  steps  of  wrong,)  should  move  you  to  mew  up 
Your  tender  kinsman,  and  to  choke  his  days 
With  barbarous  ignorance,  and  deny  his  youth 
The  rich  advantage  of  good  exercise  ? 
That  the  time's  enemies  may  not  have  this 
To  grace  occasions,  let  it  be  our  suit, 
That  you  have  bid  us  ask  his  liberty ; 
Which  for  our  goods  we  do  no  further  ask, 
That  whereupon  our  weal,  on  you  depending, 
Counts  it  your  weal,  he  have  his  liberty. 

K.John.  Let  it  be  so ;  I  do  commit  this  youth 

Enter  HUBERT. 

To  your  direction. — Hubert,  what  news  with  you  ? 

Pern.  This  is  the  man  should  do  the  bloody  deed. 
He  show'd  his  warrant  to  a  friend  of  mine : 
The  image  of  a  wicked  heinous  fault 
Lives  in  his  eye ;  that  close  aspect  of  his 
Does  show  the  mood  of  a  much-troubled  breast ; 
And  I  do  fearfully  believe,  'tis  done, 
What  we  so  fear'd  he  had  a  charge  to  do. 

Sal.  The  color  of  the  king  doth  come  and  go, 
Between  his  purpose  and  his  conscience, 
Like  heralds  'twixt  two  dreadful  battles  set : 
His  passion  is  so  ripe,  it  needs  must  break. 

Pern.  And,  when  it  breaks,  I  fear,  will  issue  thence 
The  foul  corruption  of  a  sweet  child's  death. 

K.  John.  We  cannot  hold  mortality's  strong  hand  :— 
Great  lords,  although  my  will  to  give  is  living, 
The  suit  which  you  demand  is  gone  and  dead  : 
He  tells  us,  Arthur  is  deceas'd  to-night. 

Sal  Indeed,  we  fear'd  his  sickness  was  past  cure. 

Pern.  Indeed,  we  heard  how  near  his  death  he  was, 
Before  the  child  himself  felt  he  was  sick : 
This  must  be  answer'd,  either  here,  or  hence. 

K.  John.  Why  do  you  bend  such  solemn  brows  on  me  ? 
Think  you,  I  bear  the  shears  of  destiny  ? 
Have  I  commandment  on  the  pulse  of  life  ? 

SaL  It  is  apparent  foul-play  ;  and  'tis  shame, 
That  greatness  should  so  grossly  offer  it : 
So  thrive  it  in  your  game  !  and  so  farewell. 

Pern.  Stay  yet,  lord  Salisbury  ;  I'll  go  with  thee, 
And  find  the  inheritance  of  this  poor  child, 
His  little  kingdom  of  a  forced  grave. 
That  blood,  which  ow'd  the  breadth  of  all  this  isle, 
Three  foot  of  it  doth  hold :  Bad  world  the  while  ! 
This  must  not  be  thus  borne :  this  will  break  out 
To  all  our  sorrows,  and  ere  long  I  doubt.  [  Exeunt  Lorda, 

K.  John.  They  burn  in  indignation ;  I  repent ; 


402  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

There  is  no  sure  foundation  set  on  blood  ; 
No  certain  life  achiev'd  by  others'  death. 

Enter  a  Messengei, 

A  fearftil  eye  thou  hast ;  Where  is  that  blood, 

That  I  have  seen  inhabit  in  those  cheeks  ? 

So  foul  a  sky  clears  not  without  a  storm  : 

Pour  down  thy  weather : — How  goes  all  in  France  ? 

Mess.  From  France  to  England. — Never  such  a  power 
For  any  foreign  preparation, 
Was  levied  in  the  body  of  a  land  ! 
The  copy  of  your  speed  is  learned  by  them ; 
For,  when  you  should  be  told  they  do  prepare, 
The  tidings  come,  that  they  are  all  arriv'd. 

K.  John.  O,  where  hath  our  intelligence  been  drunk  ? 
Where  hath  it  slept !  Where  is  my  mother's  care  ? 
That  such  an  army  could  be  drawn  in  France, 
And  she  not  hear  of  it  ? 

Mess.  My  liege,  her  ear 

Is  stopp'd  with  dust ;  the  first  of  April,  died  ' 
Your  noble  mother :  And,  as  I  hear,  my  lord, 
The  lady  Constance  in  a  frenzy  died 
Three  days  before :  but  this  from  rumor's  tongue 
I  idly  heard ;  If  true,  or  false,  I  know  not. 

K.  John.  Withhold  thy  speed,  dreadful  occasion ! 
O,  make  a  league  with  me,  till  I  have  pleas'd 
My  discontented  peers  ! — my  mother  dead  ? 

Hub.  My  lord,  they  say,  five  moons  were  seen  to-night  J 
Four  fixed  ;  and  the  fifth  did  whirl  about 
The  other  four,  in  wondrous  motion. 

K.  John.  Five  moons  ? 

Hub.  Old  men,  and  beldams,  in  the  streets, 

Do  prophesy  upon  it  dangerously  ; 
Young  Arthur's  death  is  common  in  their  mouths  : 
And  when  they  talk  of  him,  they  shake  their  heads, 
And  whisper  one  another  in  the  ear ; 
And  he,  that  speaks,  doth  gripe  the  hearer's  wrist; 
Whilst  he,  that  hears,  makes  fearful  action, 
With  wrinkled  brows,  with  nods,  with  rolling  eyes. 
I  saw  a  sriilcn  stand  with  his  hammer,  thus, 
The  whilst  his  iron  did  on  the  anvil  cool, 
With  open  mouth  swallowing  a  tailor's  news ; 
Who,  with  his  shears  and  measure  in  his  hand, 
Standing  on  slippers,  (which  his  nimble  haste 
Had  falsely  thrust  upon  contrary  feet,) 
Told  of  a  many  thousand  warlike  French, 
That  were  embattailled  and  rank'd  in  Kent : 
Another  lean  unwash'd  artificer 
Cuts  off  his  tale,  and  talks  of  Arthur's  death. 


KING  JOHN.  4.03 

K.  John.  Why  seek'st  thou  to  possess  me  with  these  fears  ? 
Why  urgest  thou  so  oft  young  Arthur's  death  ? 
Thy  hand  hath  murder'd  him  :  I  had  mighty  cause 
To  wish  him  dead,  but  thou  hadst  none  to  kill  him. 

Hub.  Had  none,  my  lord !  why,  did  you  npt  provoke  me  ? 

K.  John.  It  is  the  curse  of  kings,  to  be  attended 
By  slaves,  that  take  their  humors  for  a  warrant 
To  break  within  the  bloody  house  of  life ; 
And,  on  the  winking  of  authority, 
To  understand  a  law  ;  to  know  the  meaning 
Of  dangerous  majesty,  when,  perchance,  it  frowns 
More  upon  humor  than  advis'd  respect. 

Hub.  Here  is  your  hand  and  seal  for  what  I  did. 

K.  John.  O,  when  the  last  account  'twixt  heaven  and  earth 
Is  to  be  made,  then  shall  this  hand  and  seal 
Witness  against  us  to  damnation  ! 
How  oft  the  sight  of  means  to  do  ill  deeds, 
Makes  deeds  ill  done  !  Hadst  not  thou  been  by, 
A  fellow  by  the  hand  of  nature  mark'd, 
Quoted,  and  sign'd  to  do  a  deed  of  shame, 
This  murder  had  not  come  into  my  mii?d : 
But,  taking  note  of  thy  abhorr'd  aspect, 
Finding  thee  fit  for  bloody  villany, 
Apt,  liable,  to  be  employ'd  in  danger, 
I  faintly  broke  with  thee  of  Arthur's  death ; 
And  thou,  to  be  endeared  to  a  king, 
Made  it  no  conscience  to  destroy  a  prince. 

Hub.  My  lord, 

K.  John.  Hadst  thou  but  shook  thy  head,  or  made  a  pause 
When  I  spake  darkly  what  I  purposed ; 
Or  turned  an  eye  of  doubt  upon  my  face, 
And  bid  me  tell  my  tale  in  express  words  : 
Deep  shame  had  struck  me  dumb,  made  me  break  off, 
And  those  thy  fears  might  have  wrought  fears  in  me : 
But  thou  didst  understand  me  by  my  signs, 
And  didst  in  signs  again  parley  with  sin ; 
Yea,  without  stop,  didst  let  thy  heart  consent, 
And  consequently,  thy  rude  hand  to  act 
The  deed,  which  both  our  tongues  held  vile  to  name.— 
Out  of  my  sight,  and  never  see  me  more ! 
My  nobles  leave  me  ;  and  my  state  is  brav'd, 
Even  at  my  gates,  with  ranks  of  foreign  powers : 
Nay,  in  the  body  of  this  fleshly  land, 
This  kingdom,  this  confine  of  blood  and  breath, 
Hostility  and  civic  tumult  reigns 
Between  my  conscience,  and  my  cousin's  death. 

Hub.    Arm  you  against  your  other  enemies, 
I'll  make  a  peace  betwixt  your  soul  and  you. 
Young  Arthur  is  alive :  This  hand  of  mine, 


404  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Is  yet  a  maiden  and  an  innocent  hand, 

Not  painted  with  the  crimson  spots  of  blood 

Within  this  bosom  never  enter'd  yet 

The  dreadful  notion  of  a  rnurd'rous  thought, 

And  you  have  slander'd  nature  in  my  form  : 

Which  howsoever  rude  exteriorly, 

Is  yet  the  cover  of  a  fairer  mind 

Than  to  be  butcher  of  an  innocent  child. 

K.  John.  Doth  Arthur  live  ?  O,  haste  thee  to  the  peers, 
Throw  this  report  on  their  incensed  rage, 
And  make  them  tame  to  their  obedience  ! 
Forgive  the  comment  that  my  passion  made 
Upon  thy  feature  ;  for  my  rage  was  blind, 
And  foul  imaginary  eyes  "of  blood 
Presented  thee  more  hideous  than  thou  art. 
O,  answer  not ;  but  to  my  closet  bring 
The  angry  lords,  with  all  expedient  haste  : 
T  c6njure  thee  but  slowly  ;  run  more  fast.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— The  same.     Before  the  Castle. 
Enter  ARTHUR  on  the  watts. 

Arlh.  The  wall  is  high  ;  and  yet  will  I  leap  down  :— 
Good  ground,  be  pitiful,  and  hurt  me  not ! — 
There's  few,  or  none,  do  know  me  ;  if  they  did. 
This  ship-boy's  semblance  hath  disguis'd  me  quite. 
I  am  afraid ;  and  yet  I'll  venture  it. 
If  I  get  down,  and  do  not  break  my  limbs, 
I'll  find  a  thousand  shifts  to  get  away : 

As  good  to  die,  and  go,  as  die,  and  stay.  [Leaps  down. 

O  me  !  my  uncle's  spirit  is  in  these  stones  : — 
Heaven  take  my  soul,  and  England  keep  my  bones  !  [Dies, 

Enter  PEMBROKE,  SALISBURY  and  BIGCT. 

Sal.  Lords,  I  will  meet  him  at  Saint  Edmund's  Bury  : 
It  is  our  safety,  and  we  must  embrace 
This  gentle  offer  of  the  perilous  time. 

Pern.  Who  brought  that  letter  from  the  cardinal  ? 

Sal.  The  count  Melun,  a  noble  lord  of  France  ; 
Whose  private  with  me,  of  the  dauphin's  love, 
Is  much  more  general  than  these  lines  import. 

Big.  To-morrow  morning  let  us  meet  him  then. 

Sal  Or  rather  then  set  forward  :  for  'twill  be 
Two  long  days'  journey,  lords,  or  e'er  we  meet. 

Enter  FAULCONBRIDGE. 

Paul.  Once  more  to-day  well  met,  distemper'd  lords ! 
The  king  by  me,  requests  your  presence  straight. 


KING    JOHN.  405 

Sal  The  king  hath  dispossess'd  himself  of  us ; 
We  will  not  line  his  thin  bestained  cloak 
With  our  pure  honors,  nor  attend  the  foot 
That  leaves  the  print  of  blood  where'er  it  walks : 
Return,  and  tell  him  so ;  we  know  the  worst 

Paul.  Whate'er  you  think,  good  words,  I  think,  were  best. 

Sal.  Our  griefs,  and  not  our  manners,  reason  now. 

Paul.  But  there  is  little  reason  in  your  grief ; 
Therefore,  'twere  reason,  you  had  manners  now. 

Pern.  Sir,  sir,  impatience  hath  his  privilege. 

Paul.  'Tis  true ;  to  hurt  his  master,  no  man  else. 

Sal.  This  is  the  prison  :  What  is  he  lies  here  ? 

S  Seeing  ARTHUS. 
y  beauty  ! 
The  earth  had  not  a  hole  to  hide  this  deed. 

Sal.  Murder,  as  hating  what  himself  hath  done, 
Doth  lay  it  open,  to  urge  on  revenge. 

Big.  Or,  when  he  doom'd  this  beauty  to  a  grave, 
Found  it  too  precious-princely  for  a  grave. 

Sal.  Sir  Richard,  what  think  you  ?  Have  you  beheld, 
Or  have  you  read,  or  heard  ?  or  could  you  think, 
Or  do  you  almost  think,  although  you  see, 
That  you  do  see  ?  could  thought,  without  this  object, 
Form  such  another  ?  this  is  the  very  top, 
The  height,  the  crest,  or  crest  unto  the  crest, 
Of  murder's  arms  :  this  is  the  bloodiest  shame. 
The  wildest  savag'ry,  the  vilest  stroke, 
That  ever  wall-eye'd  wrath,  or  staring  rage, 
Presented  to  the  tears  of  soft  remorse. 

Pern.  All  murders  past  do  stand  excus'd  in  this : 
And  this  so  sole,  and  so  unmatchable, 
Shall  give  a  holiness,  a  purity, 
To  the  yet-un begotten  sin  of  times  ; 
And  prove  a  deadly  bloodsh'ed  but  a  jest, 
Exampled  by  this  heinous  spectacle. 

Paul.  It  is  a  cursed  and  a  bloody  work ; 
The  graceless  action  of  a  heavy  hand, 
If  that  it  be  the  work  of  any  hand. 

Sal.  If  that  it  be  the  work  of  any  hand  ?— 
We  had  a  kind  of  light,  what  would  ensue : 
It  is  the  shameful  work  of  Hubert's  hand : 
The  practice,  and  the  purpose,  of  the  king  :— 
From  whose  obedience  I  forbid  my  soul, 
Kneeling  before  this  ruin  of  sweet  life, 
And  breathing  to  his  breathless  excellence 
The  incense  of  a  vow,  a  holy  vow, 
Never  to  taste  the  pleasures  of  the  world, 
Never  to  be  infected  with  delight, 
Nor  conversant  with  ease  and  idleness, 


406  SHAKSPEARIAN    HEADER. 

Till  I  have  set  a  glory  to  this  hand, 
By  giving  it  the  worship  of  revenge. 

Pern.  Big.  Our  souls  religiously  confirm  thy  words, 

Enter  HUBERT. 

Hub    Lords,  I  am  hot  with  haste  in  seeking  you 
Artnnr  doth  live  ;  the  king  hath  sent  for  you. 

Sal  O,  he  is  bold,  and  blushes  not  at  death  : — 
Avauht,  thou  hateful  villain,  get  thee  gone  ! 

Hub.  I  am  no  villain. 

Sal.  Must  I  rob  the  law?  [Drawing  his  mord, 

Paul.  Your  sword  is  bright,  sir ;  put  it  up  again. 

Hub.  Stand  back,  lord  Salisbury,  stand  back,  I  say ; 
By  heaven,  I  think,  my  sword's  as  sharp  as  yours  : 
I  would  not  have  you,  lord,  forget  yourself, 
Nor  tempt  the  danger  of  my  true  defence  ; 
Lest  I,  by  marking  of  your  rage,  forget 
Your  worth,  your  greatness,  and  nobility. 

Big.  Out,  dunghill !  dar'st  thou  brave  a  nobleman  ? 

Hub.  Not  for  my  life  ;  but  yet  I  dare  defend 
My  innocent  life  against  an  emperor. 

Sal  Thou  art  a  murderer. 

Hub.  Do  not  prove  me  so  ; 

Yet,  I  am  none  :  Whose  tongue  soe'er  speaks  false, 
Not  truly  speaks  ;  who  speaks  not  truly,  lies. 

Pern.  Cut  him  to  pieces. 

Paul.  Keep  the  peace,  I  say. 

Sal.  Stand  by,  or  I  shall  gall  you,  Faulconbridge. 

Paul.  Thou  wert  better  gall  the  devil,  Salisbury  : 
If  thou  but  frown  on  me,  or  stir  thy  foot, 
Or  teach  thy  hasty  spleen  to  do  me  shame, 
I'll  strike  thee  dead.     Put  up  thy  sword  betime. 

Big.  What  wilt  thou  do,  renowned  Faulconbridge  ? 
Second  a  villain  and  a  murderer  ? 

Hub.  Lord  Bigot,  I  am  none. 

Big.  Who  kilFd  this  prince  ? 

Hub.  'Tis  not  an  hour  since  I  left  him  well : 
£  honor'd  him,  I  lov'd  him ;  and  will  weep 
My  date  of  life  out,  for  his  sweet  life's  loss. 

Sal.  Trust  not  those  cunning  waters  of  his  eyes, 
For  villany  is  not  without  such  rheum ; 
And  he  long  traded  in  it,  makes  it  seem 
Like  rivers  of  remorse  and  innocency. 
Away,  with  me,  all  you  whose  souls  abhor 
The  uncleanly  savors  of  a  slaughter-house  ; 
For  I  am  stiSed  with  the  smell  of  sin. 

Big.  Away,  toward  Bury,  to  the  dauphin  there ! 

Pern.  There,  tell  the  king,  he  may  inquire  us  out 

\  Exeunt  Lords, 


KING   JOHN.  107 

Paul.  Here's  a  good  world  ! — Knew  you  of  this  fair  work  ? 
Beyond  the  infinite  and  boundless  reach 
Of  mercy,  if  thou  didst  this  deed  of  death, 
Art  thou  damn'd,  Hubert. 

Hub.  Do  but  hear  me,  sir. 

Faul  Ha  !  I'll  tell  thee  what ; 
Thou  art  stained  as  black — nay,  nothing  is  so  black 
As  thou  shalt  be,  if  thou  didst  kill  this  child. 

Hub.  Upon  my  soul, 

Faul.  If  thou  didst  but  consent 

To  this  most  cruel  act,  do  but  despair, 
And,  if  thou  want'st  a  cord,  the  smallest  thread 
That  ever  spider  twisted, 
Will  serve  to  strangle  thee  ;  a  rush  will  be 
A  beam  to  hang  thee  on ;  or  would'st  thou  drown  thyself 
Put  but  a  little  water  in  a  spoon, 
And  it  shall  be  as  all  the  ocean, 

Enough  to  stifle  suph  a  villain  up. 

I  do  suspect  thee  very  grievously. 

Hub.  I  left  him  well. 

Faul.  Go,  bear  him  in  thine  arms. — 

I  am  amaz'd,  methinks  ;  and  lose  my  way 
Among  the  thorns  and  dangers  of  this  world. — 
How  easy  dost  thou  take  all  England  up ! 
From  forth  this  morsel  of  dead  royalty, 
The  life,  the  right,  and  truth  of  all  this  realm 
Is  fled  to  heaven  :  and  England  now  is  left 
To  tug  and  scramble,  and  to  part  by  the  teeth 
The  unowed  interest  of  proud-swelling  state. 
Now,  for  the  bare-pick'd  bone  of  majesty, 
Doth  dogged  war  bristle  his  angry  crest, 
And  snarleth  in  the  gentle  eyes  of  peace : 
Now  powers  from  home,  and  discontents  at  home, 
Meet  in  one  line  ;  and  vast  confusion  waits 
(As  doth  a  raven  on  a  sick-fallen  beast) 
The  eminent  decay  of  wrested  pomp. 
Now  happy  he,  whose  cloak  and  cincture  can 
Hold  out  this  tempest. — Bear  away  that  child, 
And  follow  me  with  speed ;  I'll  to  the  king : 
A  thousand  businesses  are  brief  in  hand, 
And  heaven  itself  doth  frown  upon  the  land.  [Exeunt 

ACT  V. 

SCENE  I. — The  same.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  KING  JOHN,  PANDULPH  with  the  crown,  and  Attendants. 
K.  John.  Thus  have  I  yielded  up  into  your  hand 
The  circle  of  my  glory. 


408  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Pand.  Take  again  [Giving  JOHN  the  crown. 

From  this  my  hand,  as  holding  of  the  pope, 
Your  sovereign  greatness  and  authority. 

K.  John.  Now  keep  your  holy  word :  go  meet  the  French  ; 
And  from  his  holiness  use  all  your  power 
To  stop  their  marches,  'fore  we  are  inflam'd. 
Our  discontented  counties  do  revolt ; 
Our  people  quarrel  with  obedience ; 
Swearing  allegiance,  and  the  love  of  soul, 
To  stranger  blood,  to  foreign  royalty. 
This  inundation  of  mistemper'd  humor 
Rests  by  you  only  to  be  qualified. 
Then  pause  not ;  for  the  present  time's  so  sick, 
That  present  medicine  must  be  minister'd, 
Or  overthrow  incurable  ensues. 

Pand.  It  was  my  breath  that  blew  this  tempest  up, 
Upon  your  stubborn  usage  of  the  pope  ; 
But,  since  you  are  a  gentle  convertite, 
My  tongue  shall  hush  again  this  storm  of  war, 
And  make  fair  weather  in  your  blustering  land. 
On  this  Ascension-day,  remember  well, 
Upon  your  oath  of  service  to  the  pope,  , 
Go  I  to  make  the  French  lay  down  their  arms.  \Exil 

K.  John.  Is  this  Ascension-day  ?     Did  not  the  prophet 
Say,  that,  before  Ascension-day  at  noon, 
My  crown  I  should  give  off?     Even  so  I  have : 
I  did  suppose,  it  should  be  on  constraint ; 
But,  heaven  be  thank'd,  it  is  but  voluntary. 

Enter  FAULCONBRIDGE. 

Paul.  All  Kent  hath  yielded ;  nothing  there  holds  out, 
But  Dover  castle  :  London  hath  receiv'd, 
Like  a  kind  host,  the  dauphin  and  his  powers  : 
Your  nobles  will  riot  hear  you,  but  are  gone 
To  offer  service  to  your  enemy ; 
And  wild  amazement  hurries  up  and  down 
The  little  number  of  your  doubtful  friends. 

K.  John.  Would  not  my  lords  return  to  me  again, 
After  they  heard  young  Arthur  was  alive  ? 

Paul.  They  found  him  dead,  and  cast  into  the  streets; 
An  empty  casket,  where  the  jewel  of  life 
By  some  vile  hand  was  robb'd  and  ta'en  away. 

K.  John.  That  villain  Hubert  told  me  he  did  live. 

Paul.  So,  on  my  soul,  he  did,  for  aught  he  knew. 
But  wherefore  do  you  droop  ?  why  look  you  sad  ? 
Be  great  in  act,  as  you  have  been  in  thought ; 
Let  not  the  world  see  fear,  and  sad  distrust, 
Govern  the  motion  of  a  kingly  eye  : 
Be  stirring  as  the  time  ;  be  lire  with  fire  : 


KINO   JOHN.  409 

Threaten  the  threat'ner,  and  outface  the  brow 

Of  bragging  horror :  so  shall  inferior  eyes, 

That  borrow  their  behaviors  from  the  great, 

Grow  great  by  your  example,  and  put  on 

The  dauntless  spirit  of  resolution.. 

Away ;  and  glister  like  the  god  of  war, 

When  he  intendeth  to  become  the  field : 

Show  boldness  and  aspiring  confidence. 

What,  shall  they  seek  the  lion  in  his  den, 

And  fright  him  there  ?  and  make  him  tremble  there  ? 

O,  let  it  not  be  said  ! — Forage,  and  run 

To  meet  displeasure  further  from  the  doors  ; 

And  grapple  with  him,  ere  he  comes  so  nigh. 

K.  John.  The  legate  of  the  pope  hath  been  with  me, 
And  I  have  made  a  happy  peace  with  him ; 
And  he  hath  promis'd  to  dismiss  the  powers 
Led  by  the  dauphin. 

Paul.  O  inglorious  league  ! 

Shall  we,  upon  the  footing  of  our  land, 
Send  fair-play  orders,  and  make  compromise, 
Insinuation,  parley,  and  base  truce, 
To  arms  invasive  ?  shall  a  beardless  boy, 
A  silken  wanton  brave  our  fields, 
And  flesh  his  spirit  in  a  warlike  soil, 
Mocking  the  air  with  colors  idly  spread, 
And  find  no  check  ?     Let  us,  my  liege,  to  arms  : 
Perchance,  the  cardinal  cannot  make  your  peace ; 
Or  if  he  do,  let  it  at  least  be  said, 
They  saw  we  had  a  purpose  of  defence. 

K.  John.  Have  thou  the  ordering  of  this  present  time. 

Paul.  Awa/  then,  with  good  courage  ;  yet,  I  know, 
Our  party  may  well  meet  a  prouder  foe.  [Exeunt. 

The  Dauphin,  aided  by  the  disaffected  Nobles  of  England,  gives  battle  to  John  a) 
St.  Edmund's  Bury  ;  the  King's  troops  are  repulsed,  and  John  is  conveyed  to  Swinstead 
Abbey,  sick  of  a  fever. 

SCENE. — An  open  Place  in  the  neighborhood  of  Swinstead- Abbey. 
Enter  FATJLCONBRIDGE  and  HUBERT,  meeting. 

Hub.  Who's  there  ?  speak,  ho  !  speak  quickly,  or  I  shoot.  * 

Paul.  A  friend. — What  art  thou  ? 

Hub.  Of  the  part  of  England, 

Paul.  Whither  dost  thou  go  ? 

Hub.  What's  that  to  thee  ?     Why  may  I  not  demand 
Of  thine  affairs,  as  well  as  thou  of  mine  ? 
Paul.  Hubert,  I  think. 

Hub.  Thou  hast  a  perfect  thought : 

19 


410  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

will,  upon  all  hazards,  well  believe 
Thou  art  my  friend,  that  know'st  my  tongue  so  well  • 
Who  art  thou  ? 

Paul.  Who  thou  wilt :  an  if  thou  please, 

Thou  may'st  befriend  me  so  much,  as  to  think 
I  come  one  way  of  the  Plantagenets. 

Hub.  Unkind  remembrance  !  thou,  and  eyeless  night, 
Have  done  me  shame  : — Brave  soldier,  pardon  me, 
That  any  accent,  breaking  from  thy  tongue, 
Should  'scape  the  true  acquaintance  of  mine  ear. 

Paul.  Come,  come ;  sans  compliment,  what  news  abroad  ? 

Hub.  Why,  here  walk  I,  in  the  black  brow  of  night, 
To  find  you  out. 

Paul.  Brief,  then  ;  and  what's  the  news  ? 

Hub.  O,  my  sweet  sir,  news  fitting  to  the  night, 
Black,  fearful,  comfortless,  and  horrible. 

Paul.  Show  me  the  very  wound  of  this  ill  news ; 
I  am  no  woman,  I'll  not  swoon  at  it. 

Hub.  The  king,  I  fear,  is  poison'd  by  a  monk : 
I  left  him  almost  speechless,  and  broke  out 
To  acquaint  you  with  this  evil ;  that  you  might 
The  better  arm  you  to  the  sudden  time, 
Than  if  you  had  at  leisure  known  of  this. 

Paul.  How  did  he  take  it  ?  who  did  taste  to  him  ? 

Hub.  A  monk,  I  tell  you  ;  a  resolved  villain. 
The  king  yet  speaks,  and  peradventure  may  recover. 

Paul.  Who  didst  thou  leave  to  tend  his  majesty  ? 

Hub.  Why,  know  you  not  ?  the  lords  are  all  come  back, 
And  brought  prince  Henry  in  their  company ; 
At  whose  request  the  king  hath  pardon'd  them, 
And  they  are  all  about  his  majesty. 

Paul.  Withhold  thine  indignation,  mighty  heaven, 

And  tempt  us  not  to  bear  above  our  power ! 

I'll  tell  thee,  Hubert,  half  my  power  this  night 

Passing  these  flats,  are  taken  by  the  tide, 

These  Lincoln  washes  have  devoured  them  ; 

Myself,  well-mounted,  hardly  have  escap'd. 

Away,  before  !  conduct  me  to  the  king ; 

I  doubt,  he  will  be  dead,  or  ere  I  come.  [Exeunt 

SCENE.— The  Orchard  of  Swinstead- Abbey. 
Enter  PRINCE  HENRY,  SALISBURY,  and  BIGOT. 

P.  Hen.  It  is  too  late ;  the  life  of  all  his  blood 
Is  touch'd  corruptibly ;  and  his  pure  brain 
(Which  some  suppose  the  soul's  frail  dwelling-house,) 
Doth,  by  the  idle  comments  that  it  makes, 
Foretell  the  ending  of  mortality. 


KING   JOHN.  411 

Enter  PEMBROKE. 

Pern.  His  highness  yet  doth  speak  ;  and  holds  belief, 
That,  being  brought  into  the  open  air, 
It  would  allay  the  burning  quality 
Of  that  fell  poison  which  assaileth  him. 

P.  Hen.  Let  him  be  brought  into  the  orchard  here. — 
Doth  he  still  rage  ?  [Exit  BIGOT. 

Pern.  He  is  more  patient 

Than  when  you  left  him  ;  even  now  he  sung. 

P.  Hen.  O  vanity  of  sickness  !  fierce  extremes, 
In  their  continuance,  will  not  feel  themselves. 
Death,  having  prey'd  upon  the  outward  parts, 
Leaves  them  insensible ;  and  his  siege  is  now 
Against  the  mind,  the  which  he  goads  and  wounds 
With  many  legions  of  strange  fantasies ; 
Which,  in  their  throng  and  press  to  that  last  hold, 
Confound  themselves.     'Tis  strange,  that  death  should  sing. 
I  am  the  cygnet  to  this  pale  faint  swan, 
W'ho  chants  a  doleful  hymn  to  his  own  death  ; 
And,  from  the  organ-pipe  of  frailty,  sings 
His  soul  and  body  to  their  lasting  rest. 

Sal.  Be  of  good  comfort,  prince  ;  for  you  are  born 
To  set  a  form  upon  that  indigest, 
Which  he  hath  left  so  shapeless  and  so  rude. 

Re-enter  BIGOT  and  Attendants,  who  bring  in  KING  JOHN,  «7i 
a  chair. 

K.  John.  Ay,  marry,  now  my  soul  hath  elbow-room ; 
It  would  not  out  at  windows,  nor  at  doors. 
There  is  so  hot  a  summer  in  my  bosom, 
That  all  my  bowels  crumble  up  to  dust : 
I  am  a  scribbled  form,  drawn  with  a  pen 
Upon  a  parchment ;  and  against  this  fire 
Do  I  shrink  up. 

P.  Hen.  How  fares  your  majesty  ? 

K.  John.  Poison'd, — ill  fare  ; — dead,  forsook,  cast  off; 
And  none  of  you  will  bid  the  winter  come, 
To  thrust  his  icy  fingers  in  my  maw ; 
Nor  let  my  kingdom's  rivers  take  their  course 
Through  my  burn'd  bosom  ;  nor  entreat  the  north 
To  make  his  bleak  winds  kiss  my  parched  lips, 
And  comfort  me  with  cold : — I  do  not  ask  you  much, 
I  beg  cold  comfort ;  and  you  are  so  strait, 
And  so  ingrateful,  you  deny  me  that. 

P.  Hen.  O,  that  there  were  some  virtue  in  my  tears, 
That  might  relieve  you  ! 

K.  John.  The  salt  in  them  is  hot — 

Within  me  is  a  hell ;  and  there  the  poison 


412  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Is,  as  a  fiend,  confin'd  to  tyrannize 
On  unreprievable  condemned  blood. 

Enter  FAULCONBRIDGE. 

Paul.  O,  I  am  scalded  with  my  violent  motion, 
And  spleen  of  speed  to  see  your  majesty. 

K.  John.  O  cousin,  thou  art  come  to  set  mine  eye : 
The  tackle  of  my  heart  is  crack'd  and  burn'd ; 
And  all  the  shrouds,  wherewith  my  life  should  sail, 
Are  turned  to  one  thread,  one  little  hair  : 
My  heart  hath  one  poor  string  to  stay  it  j»y, 
Which  holds  but  till  thy  news  be  utter'd ; 
And  then  all  this  thou  seest  is  but  a  clod, 
And  module  of  confounded  royalty. 

Paul.  The  dauphin  is  preparing  hitherward  ; 
Where,  heaven  he  knows,  how  we  shall  answer  him : 
For,  in  a  night,  the  best  part  of  my  power, 
As  I  upon  advantage  did  remove, 
Were  in  the  washes,  all  unwarily 
Devour'd  by  the  unexpected  flood.  [The  KING  dks. 

Sal.  You  breathe  these  dead  news  in  as  dead  an  ear. 
My  liege  !  my  lord  ! — But  now  a  king, — now  thus. 

P.  Hen.  Even  so  must  I  run  on,  and  even  so  stop. 
What  surety  of  the  world,  what  hope,  what  stay, 
When  this  was  now  a  king,  and  now  is  clay  ! 

Paul.  Art  thou  gone  so  ?    I  do  but  stay  behind, 
To  do  the  office  for  thee  of  revenge ; 
And  then  my  soul  shall  wait  on  thee  to  heaven, 

As  it  on  earth  hath  been  thy  servant  still. 

Now,  now,  you  stars,  that  move  in  your  right  spheres, 

Where  be  your  powers  ?    Show  now  your  mended  faiths ; 

And  instantly  return  with  me  again, 

To  push  destruction,  and  perpetual  shame, 

Out  of  the  weak  door  of  our  fainting  land  : 

Straight  let  us  seek,  or  straight  we  shall  be  sought ; 

The  dauphin  rages  at  our  very  heels. 

Sal  It  seems,  you  know  not  then  so  much  as  we : 
The  cardinal  Pandulph  is  within  at  rest, 
Who  half  an  hour  since  came  from  the  dauphin  ; 
And  brings  from  him  such  offers  of  our  peace 
As  we  with  honor  and  respect  may  take, 
With  purpose  presently  to  leave  this  war. 

Paul.  He  will  the  rather  do  it,  when  he  sees 
Ourselves  well  sinewed  to  our  defence. 

Sal.  Nay,  it  is  in  a  manner  done  already ; 
For  many  carriages  he  hath  despatch'd 
To  the  seaside,  and  put  his  cause  and  quarrel 
To  the  disposing  of  the  cardinal. 
With  whom  yourself,  myself,  and  other  lords, 


KING   JOHN.  413 

If  you  think  meet,  this  afternoon  will  post 
To  c6nsummate  this  business  happily. 

Paul.  Let  it  be  so : — And  you,  my  noble  prince, 
With  other  princes  that  may  best  be  spar'd, 
Shall  wait  upon  your  father's  funeral. 

P.  Hen.  At  Worcester  must  his  body  be  interr'd  ; 
For  so  he  wHl'd  it. 

Paul.  Thither  shall  it  then. 

And  happily  may  your  sweet  self  put  on 
The  lineal  state  and  glory  of  the  land ! 
To  whom,  with  all  submission,  on  my  knee, 
I  do  bequeath  my  faithful  services 
And  true  subjection  everlastingly. 

Sal.  And  the  like  tender  of  our  love  we  make, 
To  rest  without  a  spot  for  evermore. 

P.  Hen.  I  have  a  kind  soul,  that  would  give  you  thanks. 
And  knows  not  how  to  do  it,  but  with  tears. 

Paul.  O,  let  us  pay  the  time  but  needful  woe, 
Since  it  hath  been  beforehand  with  our  griefs. — 
This  England  never  did,  (nor  never  shall,) 
Lie  at  the  proud  foot  of  a  conqueror,  . 
But  when  it  first  did  help  to  wound  itself. 
Now  these  her  princes  are  come  home  again, 
Come  the  three  corners  of  the  world  in  arms, 
And  we  shall  shock  them :  Nought  shall  make  us  rue, 
If  England  to  itself  do  rest  but  true.  [Exeunt. 


KING  HENRY  IV. 


The  chronicles  of  Hollingshed  and  Stowe,  appear  to  have  been  the  sources  from 
Which  Shakspeare  drew  the  materials  for  constructing  his  series  of  English  Historica. 
Plays,  adding,  however,  characters  and  incidents  from  his  own  teeming  imagination,  and 
heightening  the  real  personages  he  introduces,  with  all  the  vivid  touches  of  his  excelling 
skill. 

In  the  first  and  second  parts  of  Henry  IV,  appears  that  marvel  of  his  creative  genius, 
FalstarT,— who  is  aptly  made  the  leader  of  the  dissolute  set  of  profligates  which  surrounded 
the  young  Prince,  afterwards  Henry  V.  An  isolated  extract  could  not  do  justice  to  this 
inimitable  creation  ;  we  have,  therefore,  preferred  to  confine  our  selections  to  the  historical 
incidents  of  the  Play.  "  The  transactions  contained  in  it  are  comprised  within  the  period 
of  about  ten  months.  The  action  commences  with  the  news  brought  of  Hotspur  having 
defeated  the  Scots  under  Archibald  earl  of  Douglas,  at  Holmedon  (or  Halidown-hill), 
which  battle  was  fought  on  Holyroodday  (the  14th  of  September),  1402  ;  and  it  closei 
with  the  defeat  and  death  of  Hotspur  at  Shrewsbury  ;  which  engagement  happened  on 
Saturday  the  21st  of  July  (the  eve  of  Saint  Mary  Magdalen),  in  the  year  1403." 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 
KING  HENRY  THE  FOURTH. 


the  King- 


THOMAS  PERCY,  Earl  of  Worcester. 

HENRY  PERCY,  Earl  of  Northumberland. 

HENRY  PERCY,  surname  d  HOTSPUR,  his  son. 

EDMUND  MORTIMER,  Earl  of  March. 

SCROOP,  Archbishop  of  YORK. 

Sir  MICHAEL,  a  friend  of  the  Archbishop. 

ARCHIBALD,  Earl  of  Douglas. 

OWEN  GLENDOWER. 

Sir  RICHARD  VERNON. 

Sir  JOHN  FALSTAFF. 

POINS. 

GADSHILL. 

PETO. 

BARDOLPH. 


KING   HENRY    IV.  415 

Lady  PEKCY,  wife  to  Hotspur,  and  sistet  to  Mortimer. 

Lady  MORTIMER,  daughter  to  Glendower,  and  wife  to  Mortimei 

Mrs.  QUICKLY,  hostess  of  a  tavern  in  Eastcheap. 

Loids,  Officers,  Sheriff,  Vintner,  Chamberlain,  Drawers,  Two  Carrier*, 
Travellers,  and  Attendants. 

SCENE, — ENGLAND 


ACT  I. 

King  Henry  sends  for  Hotspur,  to  give  •».  ac.-onnt  of  his  conduct  at  the  Battle  of 
Holmedon. 

SCENE.— London,  a  Rxmi  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  KING  HENRY,  NORTHUMBERLAND,  WORCESTER,  HOTSPUR,  Sir 
WALTER  BLUNT,  and  others. 

K.  Hen.  My  blood  hath  beea  too  cold  and  temperate, 
Unapt  to  stir  at  these  indignities, 
And  you  have  found  me  ;  for,  accordingly, 
You  tread  upon  my  patience  ;  but,  be  sure, 
I  will  from  henceforth  rather  be  myself, 
Mighty,  and  to  be  fear'd,  than  my  condition ; 
Which  hath  been  smooth  as  oil,  soft  as  young  down, 
And  therefore  lost  that  title  of  respect, 
Which  the  proud  soul  ne'er  pays,  but  to  the  proud. 

War.  Our  house,  my  sovereign  liege,  little  deserves 
The  scourge  of  greatness  to  be  used  on  it ; 
And  that  same  greatness  too  which  our  own  hands 
Have  holp  to  make  so  portly. 

North.  My  lord,— 

K.  Hen.  Worcester,  get  thee  gone,  for  I  see  danger 
And  disobedience  in  thine  eye  :  O,  sir, 
¥our  presence  is  too  bold  and  peremptory, 
And  majesty  might  never  yet  endure 
The  moody  frontier  of  a  servant  brow. 
You  have  good  leave  to  leave  us  ;  when  we  need 
Your  use  and  counsel,  we  shall  send  for  you. — 

[Exit  WORCESTER, 
You  were  about  to  speak.  [  To  NORTH, 

North.  Yea,  my  good  lord. 

Those  prisoners  in  your  highness'  name  demanded, 
Which  Harry  Percy  here  at  Holmedon  took, 
Were,  as  he  says,  not  with  such  strength  denied, 
As  is  deliver'd  to  your  majesty  : 
Either  envy,  therefore,  or  misprision 
Is  guilty  of  this  fault,  and  not  my  son. 

Hot.  My  liege,  I  did  deny  no  prisoners. 


416  SHAKSPEARIAN   READER. 

Bnt,  I  remember,  when  the  fight  was  done, 
When  I  was  dry  with  rage,  and  extreme  toil, 
Breathless  and  faint,  leaning  upon  my  sword, 
Came  there  a  certain  lord,  neat,  trimly  dress'd, 
Fresh  as  a  bridegroom ;  and  his  chin,  new  reap'd, 
Show'd  like  a  stubble-land  at  harvest-home  ; 
He  was  perfumed  like  a  milliner  ; 
And  'twixt  his  finger  and  his  thumb  he  held 
A  pouncet-box,  which  ever  and  anon 

He  gave  his  nose,  and  took't  away  again  ; 

Who,  therewith  angry,  when  it  next  came  there, 

Took  it  in  snuff: — and  still  he  smil'd  and  talk'd; 

And,  as  the  soldiers  bore  dead  bodies  by, 

He  call'd  them — untaught  knaves,  unmannerly, 

To  bring  a  slovenly,  unhandsome  corse 

Betwixt  the  wind  and  his  nobility. 

With  many  holiday  and  lady  terms 

He  question'd  me ;  among  the  rest,  demanded 

My  prisoners,  in  your  majesty's  behalf. 

I  then,  all  smarting  with  my  wounds  being  cold, 

To  be  so  pester'd  with  a  popinjay, 

Out  of  my  grief  and  my  impatience, 

Answer'd  neglectingly,  I  know  not  what ; 

He  should,  or  he  should  not ; — for  he  made  me  mad, 

To  see  him  shine  so  brisk,  and  smell  so  sweet, 

And  talk  so  like  a  waiting  gentlewoman, 

Of  guns,  and  drums,  and  wounds,  (God  save  the  mark !) 

And  telling  me,  the  sovereign'st  thing  on  earth 

Was  parmaceti,  for  an  inward  bruise  ; 

And  that  it  was  great  pity,  so  it  was, 

That  villanous  saltpetre  should  be  digg'd 

Out  of  the  bowels  of  the  harmless  earth, 

Which  many  a  good  tall  fellow  had  destroy'd 

So  cowardly ;  and,  but  for  these  vile  guns, 

He  would  himself  have  been  a  soldier. 

This  bald  unjointed  chat  of  his,  my  lord, 

I  answer'd  indirectly,  as  I  said ; 

And,  I  beseech  you,  let  not  his  report 

Come  current  for  an  accusation, 

Betwixt  my  love  and  your  high  majesty. 

Blunt.  The  circumstance  consider'd,  good  my  lord, 
Whatever  Harry  Percy  then  had  said, 
To  such  a  person,  and  in  such  a  place, 
At  such  a  time,  with  all  the  rest  re-told, 
May  reasonably  die,  and  never  rise 
To  do  him  wrong,  or  any  way  impeach 
What  then  he  said,  so  he  unsay  it  now. 

K.  Hen.  Why,  yet  he  doth  deny  his  prisoners ; 
But  with  proviso,  and  exception, — 


KING   HENRY    IV.  41 T 

That  we,  at  our  own  charge,  shall  ransom  straight 
His  brother-in-law,  the  foolish  Mortimer ; 
Who,  on  my  soul,  hath  wilfully  betray'd 
The  lives  of  those  that  he  did  lead  to  fight 
Against  the  great  magician,  curs'd  Glendower  ; 
Whose  daughter,  as  we  hear,  the  earl  of  March 
Hath  lately  married.     Shall  our  coffers  then 
Be  emptied,  to  redeem  a  traitor  home  ? 
Shall  we  buy  treason  ?  and  indent  with  fears, 
When  they  have  lost  and  forfeited  themselves  ? 
No,  on  the  barren  mountains  let  him  starve ; 
For  I  shall  never  hold  that  man  my  friend, 
Whose  tongue  shall  ask  me  for  one  penny  cost 
To  ransom  home  revolted  Mortimer. 

Hot.  Revolted  Mortimer ! 
He  never  did  fall  off,  my  sovereign  liege, 
But  by  the  chance  of  war ; — To  prove  that  true, 
Needs  no  more  but  one  tongue  for  all  those  wounds, 
Those  mouthed  wounds,  which  valiantly  he  took, 
When  on  the  gentle  Severn's  sedgy  bank, 
In  single  opposition,  hand  to  hand, 
He  did  confound  the  best  part  of  an  hour 
In  changing  hardiment  with  great  Glendower : 
Three  times  they  breath'd,  and  three  times  did  they  drink 
Upon  agreement,  of  swift  Severn's  flood  ; 
Who  then,  affrighted  with  their  bloody  looks, 
Ran  fearfully  among  the  trembling  reeds, 
And  hid  his  crisp  head  in  the  hollow  bank 
Blood-stained  with  these  valiant  combatants. 
Never  did  bare  and  rotten  policy 
Color  her  working  with  such  deadly  wounds ; 
Nor  never  could  the  noble  Mortimer 
Receive  so  many,  and  all  willingly  : 
Then  let  him  not  be  slander'd  with  revolt. 

K.  Hen.  Thou  dost  belie  him,  Percy,  thou  dost  belie  him, 
He  never  did  encounter  with  Glendower  ; 
I  tell  thee, 

He  durst  as  well  have  met  the  devil  alone, 
As  Owen  Glendower  for  an  enemy. 
Art  not  asham'd  ?     But,  sirrah,  henceforth 
Let  me  not  hear  you  speak  of  Mortimer ; 
Send  me  your  prisoners  with  the  speediest  means, 
Or  you  shall  hear  in  such  a  kind  from  me 
As  will  displease  you. — My  lord  Northumberland, 
We  license  your  departure  with  your  son . — 
Send  us  your  prisoners,  or  you'll  hear  of  it. 

[Exeunt  KING  HENRY,  BLUNT,  and  Train. 

Hot.  And  if  the  devil  come  and  roar  for  them, 
I  will  not  send  them  : — I  will  after  straight, 


418  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

And  tell  him  so ;  for  I  will  ease  my  heart, 
Although  it  be  with  hazard  of  my  head. 

North.  What,  drunk  with  choler  ?  stay,  and  pause  awhile ; 
Here  comes  your  uncle. 

Re-enter  WORCESTER. 

Hot.  Speak  of  Mortimer  ? 

'Zounds,  I  will  speak  of  him ;  and  let  my  soul 
Want  mercy,  if  I  do  not  join  with  him  : 
Yea,  on  his  part,  I'll  empty  all  these  veins, 
And  shed  my  blood  drop  by  drop  i'  the  dust, 
But  I  will  lift  the  down-trod  Mortimer 
As  high  i'  the  air  as  this  unthankful  king, 
As  this  ingrate  and  canker'd  Bolingbroke. 

North.  Brother,  the  king  hath  made  your  nephew  mad. 

[To  WORCESTEB 

Wor.  Who  struck  this  heat  up.  after  I  was  gone  ? 

Hot.  He  will,  forsooth,  have  all  my  prisoners ; 
And  when  I  urg'd  the  ransom  once  again 
Of  my  wife's  brother,  then  his  cheek  look'd  pale ; 
And  on  my  face  he  turn'd  an  eye  of  death, 
Trembling  even  at  the  name  of  Mortimer. 

Wor.  I  cannot  blame  him  :  Was  he  not  proclaim'd, 
By  Richard  that  dead  is,  the  next  of  blood  ? 

North.  He  was  ;  I  heard  the  proclamation  : 
And  then  it  was,  when  the  unhappy  king 
(Whose  wrongs  in  us  God  pardon !)  did  set  forth 
Upon  his  Irish  expedition ; 
From  whence  he,  intercepted,  did  return 
To  be  depos'd,  and,  shortly,  murdered. 

Wor.  And  for  whose  death,  we  in  the  world's  wide  mouth 
Live  scandaliz'd,  and  foully  spoken  of. 

Hot.  But,  soft,  I  pray  you  ;  Did  king  Richard  then 
Proclaim  my  brother  Edmund  Mortimer 
Heir  to  the  crown  ? 

North.  He  did  ;  myself  did  hear  it. 

Hot.  Nay,  then  I  cannot  blame  his  cousin  king; 
That  wish'd  him  on  the  barren  mountains  starv'd 
But  shall  it  be,  that  you, — that  set  the  crown 
Upon  the  head  of  this  forgetful  man  ; 
And,  for  his  sake,  wear  the  detested  blot 
Of  murd'rous  subornation, — shall  it  be, 
That  you  a  world  of  curses  undergo ; 
Being  the  agents,  or  base  second  means, 
The  cords,  the  ladder,  or  the  hangman  rather  ?- 
O,  pardon  me,  that  I  descend  so  low, 
To  show  the  line,  and  the  predicament, 
Wherein  you  range  under  this  subtle  king. — 
Shall  it,  for  shame,  be  spoken  in  these  days, 


KING   HENRY    IV.  410 

Or  fill  up  chronicles  in  time  to  come, 
That  men  of  your  nobility  and  power, 
Did  'gage  them  both  in  an  unjust  behalf, — 
As  both  of  you,  God  pardon  it !  have  done, — 
To  put  down  Richard,  that  sweet  lovely  rose, 
And  plant  this  thorn,  this  canker,  Bolingbroke  ? 
And  shall  it,  in  more  shame,  be  further  spoken, 
That  you  are  fool'd,  discarded,  and  shook  off 
By  him,  for  whom  these  shames  ye  underwent  7 
No ;  yet  time  serves,  wherein  you  may  redeem 
Your  banish'd  honors,  and  restore  yourselves 
Into  the  good  thoughts  of  the  world  again  : 
Revenge  the  jeering,  and  disdain'd  contempt, 
Of  this  proud  king ;  who  studies,  day  and  night, 
To  answer  all  the  debt  he  owes  to  you, 
Even  with  the  bloody  payment  of  your  deaths. 
Therefore,  I  say, 

Wor.  Peace,  cousin,  say  no  more: 

And  now  I  will  unclasp  a  secret  book, 
And  to  your  quick-conceiving  discontents 
I'll  read  you  matter  deep  and  dangerous ; 
As  full  of  peril,  and  advent'rous  spirit, 
As  to  o'er-walk  a  current,  roaring  loud, 
On  the  unsteadfast  footing  of  a  spear. 

Hot.  If  he  fall  in,  good  night  ; — or  sink  or  swim  J— 
Send  danger  from  the  east  unto  the  west, 
So  honor  cross  it  from  the  north  to  south, 
And  let  them  grapple  ; — O  !  the  blood  more  stirs, 
To  rouse  a  lion  than  to  start  a  hare. 

North.  Imagination  of  some  great  exploit 
Drives  him  beyond  the  bounds  of  patience. 

Hot.  By  heaven,  methinks,  it  were  an  easy  leap, 
To  pluck  bright  honor  from  the  pale-fac'd  moon ; 
Or  dive  into  the  bottom  of  the  deep, 
Where  fathom-line  could  never  touch  the  ground, 
And  pluck  up  d-owned  honor  by  the  locks ; 
So  he,  that  doth  redeem  her  thence,  might  wear 
Without  corrival.  all  her  dignities  : 
But  out  upon  this  half-fac'd  fellowship ! 

Wor.  He  apprehends  a  world  of  figures  here, 
But  not  the  form  of , what  he  should  attend. — 
Good  cousin,  give  me  audience  for  a  while. 

Hot.  I  cry  you  mercy. 

Wor.                              Those  same  noble  Scots, 
That  are  your  prisoners, 

Hot.  I'll  keep  them  all ; 

By  heaven,  he  shall  not  have  a  Scot  of  them  : 
I'll  keep  them,  by  this  hand 

Wor.  You  start  away, 


420  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

And  lend  no  ear  unto  my  purposes. — 
Those  prisoners  you  shall  keep. 

Hot.  Nay,  I  will ;  that's  flat  :— 

He  said,  he  would  not  ransom  Mortimer ; 
Forbade  my  tongue  to  speak  of  Mortimer 
But  I  will  find  him  when  he  lies  asleep, 
And  in  his  ear  I'll  holla — Mortimer  I 
Nay, 

I'll  have  a  starling  shall  be  taught  to  speak 
Nothing  but  Mortimer,  and  give  it  him, 
To  keep  his  anger  still  in  motion. 

Wor.  Hear  you, 

Cousin ;  a  word. 

Hot.  All  studies  here  I  solemnly  defy, 
Save  how  to  gall  and  pinch  this  Bolingbroke ; 
And  that  same  sword-and-buckler  prince  of  Wa*es, 
But  that  I  think  his  father  loves  him  not, 
And  would  be  glad  he  met  with  some  mischance, 
I'd  have  him  poison'd  with  a  pot  of  ale. 

Wor.  Farewell,  kinsman !     I  will  talk  to  you, 
When  you  are  better  temper'd  to  attend. 

North.  Why,  what  a  wasp-stung  and  impatient  fool 
Art  thou,  to  break  into  this  woman's  mood ; 
Tying  thine  Par  to  no  tongue  but  thine  own  ? 

Hot.,  Why,  look  you,  I  am  whipp'd  and  scourg'd  with  rods, 
Nettled,  and  stung  with  pismires,  when  I  hear 
Of  this  vile  politician,  Bolingbroke. 
In  Richard's  time, — What  do  you  call  the  place  ? — 
A  plague  upon't ! — it  is  in  Gloucestershire ; — 
'Twas  where  the  mad-cap  duke  his  uncle  kept ; 
His  uncle  York ; — where  I  first  bow'd  my  knee 
Unto  this  king  of  smiles,  this  Bolingbroke, 
When  you  and  he  came  back  from  Ravenspurg. 

North.  At  Berkley  castle. 

Hot.  You  say  true  : 

Why,  what  a  candy  deal  of  courtesy 

This  fawning  greyhound  then  did  proffer  me  ! 

Look, — when  his  infant  fortune  came  to  age, 

And,  gentle  Harry  Percy, — and,  kind  cousin, — 

O,  the  devil  take  such  cozeners  ! — Heaven  forgive  me  ! — 

Good  uncle,  tell  your  tale,  for  [  have  done. 

Wor.  Nay,  if  you  have  not,  to't  again ; 
We'll  stay  your  leisure. 

Hot.  I  have  done,  i'faith. 

Wor.  Then  once  more  to  your  Scottish  prisoners. 
Deliver  them  up  without  their  ransom  straight, 
And  make  the  Douglas'  son  your  only  mean 
For  powers  in  Scotland ;  which, — for  divers  reasons, 
Which  I  shall  send  you  written, — be  assur'd, 


KING   HENRY    IV.  421 

Will  easily  be  granted. — You,  my  lord, —     [To  NORTHUMBERLAND 

Your  son  in  Scotland  being  thus  employ'd, — 

Shall  secretly  into  the  bosom  creep 

Of  that  same  noble  prelate,  well  belov'd, 

The  archbishop. 

Hot.  Of  York,  is't  not  ? 

War.  True  ;  who  bears  hard 
His  brother's  death  at  Bristol,  the  lord  Scroop 
I  speak  not  this  in  estimation, 
As  what  I  think  might  be,  but  what  I  know 
Is  ruminated,  plotted  and  set  down ; 
And  only  stays  but  to  behold  the  face 
Of  that  occasion  that  shall  bring  it  on. 

Hot.  I  smell  it ;  upon  my  life,  it  will  do  well. 

North.  Before  the  game's  afoot,  thou  still  let'st  slip. 

Hot.  Why,  it  cannot  choose  but  be  a  noble,  plot  :— 
And  then  the  power  of  Scotland,  and  of  York, — 
To  join  with  Mortimer,  ha  ? 

Wor.  And  so  they  shall. 

Hot.  In  faith,  it  is  exceedingly  well  aim'd. 

Wor.  And  'tis  no  little  reason  bids  us  speed, 
To  save  our  heads  by  raising  of  a  head : 
For,  bear  ourselves  as  even  as  we  can, 
The  king  will  always  think  him  in  our  debt; 
And  think  we  think  ourselves  unsatisfied, 
Till  he  hath  found  a  time  to  pay  us  home. 
And  see  already  how  he  doth  begin 
To  make  us  strangers  to  his  looks  of  love. 

Hot.  He  does,  he  does  ;  we'll  be  reveng'd  on  him. 

Wor.  Cousin,  farewell ; — No  further  go  in  this 
Than  I  by  letters  shall  direct  your  course. 
When  time  is  ripe,  (which  will  be  suddenly,) 
I'll  steal  to  Glendower,  and  lord  Mortimer ; 
Where  you  and  Douglas,  and  our  powers  at  once, 
(As  I  will  fashion  it,)  shall  happily  meet, 
To  bear  our  fortunes  in  our  own  strong  arms, 
Which  now  we  hold  with  much  uncertainty. 

North.  Farewell,  good  brother,  we  shall  thrive,  I  trust. 

Hot.  Uncle,  adieu  : — O,  let  the  hours  be  short, 
Till  fields,  and  blows,  and  groans  applaud  our  sport.  [Exeunt. 

Hotspur  and   his  confederates  meet  in  consultation,  preparatory  to  the  battle  of 
Shrewsbury. 

ACT  III. 

SCENE  I.— Bangor.     A  Room  in  the  Archdeacon's  House. 
Enter  HOTSPUR,  WORCESTER,  MORTIMER,  and  GLENDOWEK. 
Mort.  These  promises  are  fair,  the  parties  surer 
And  our  induction  full  of  prosperous  hope. 


422  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Hot.  Lord  Mortimer, — and  cousin  Glendower, — 

Will  you  sit  down  ? 

And,  uncle  Worcester : — A  plague  upon't ! 
I  have  forgot  the  map. 

Glend.  No,  here  it  is. 

Sit,  cousin  Percy  ;  sit,  good  cousin  Hotspur : 
For  by  that  name  as  oft  as  Lancaster 
Doth  speak  of  you,  his  cheek  looks  pale,  and,  with 
A  rising  sigh,  he  wisheth  you  in  heaven. 

Hot.  And  you  in  hell,  as  often  as  he  hears 
Owen  Glendower  spoke  of. 

Glend.  I  cannot  blame  him :  at  my  nativity, 
The  front  of  heaven  was  full  of  fiery  shapes, 
Of  burning  cressets  ;  and,  at  my  birth, 
The  frame  and  huge  foundation  of  the  earth 
Shak'd  like  a  coward. 

Hot.  Why,  so  it  would  have  done 

At  the  same  season,  if  your  mother's  cat  had 
But  kitten'd,  though  yourself  had  ne'er  been  bora. 

Glend.  I  say,  the  earth  did  shake  when  I  was  born. 

Hot.  And  I  say,  the  earth  was  not  of  my  mind, 
If  you  suppose,  as  fearing  you  it  shook. 

Glend.  The  heavens  were  all  on  fire,  the  earth  did  tremble 

Hot.  O  then  the  earth  shook  to  see  the  heavens  on  fire, 
And  not  in  fear  of  your  nativity. 
Diseased  nature  oftentimes  breaks  forth 
In  strange  eruptions, 

Which  shake  old  beldame  earth,  and  topple  down 
Steeples,  and  moss-grown  towers.     At  your  birth, 
Our  grandam  earth,  having  this  distemperature, 
In  passion  shook. 

Glend.  Cousin,  of  many  men 

I  do  not  bear  these  crossings.     Give  me  leave 
To  tell  you  once  again, — that  at  my  birth, 
The  front  of  heaven  was  full  of  fiery  shapes ; 
The  goats  ran  from  the  mountains,  and  the  herds 
Were  strangely  clamorous  to  the  frighted  fields. 
These  signs  have  mark'd  me  extraordinary ; 
And  all  the  courses  of  my  life  do  show, 
I  am  not  in  the  roll  of  common  men. 
Where  is  he  living, — clipp'd  in  with  the  sea 
That  chides  the  banks  of  England,  Scotland,  Wales, — 
Which  calls  me  pupil,  or  hath  read  to  me  ? 
And  bring  him  out,  that  is  but  woman's  son, 
Can  trace  me  in  the  tedious  ways  of  art, 
And  hold  me  pace  in  deep  experiments. 

Hot.  I  think  there  is  no  man  speaks  better  Welsh.— 

Glend.  I  can  speak  English,  lord,  as  well  as  you : 
For  I  was  train'd  up  in  the  English  court: 


KING   HENRT    IV.  423 

Where,  being  but  young,  I  framed  to  the  harp 
Many  an  English  ditty,  lovely  well, 
And  gave  the  tongue  a  helpful  ornament ; 
A  virtue  that  was  never  seen  in  you. 

Hot.  Marry,  and  Tin  glad  of 't  with  all  my  heart : 
I  had  rather  be  a  kitten  and  cry — mew, 
Than  one  of  these  same  metre  ballad-mongers  : 
I  had  rather  hear  a  brazen  canstick  turn'd, 
Or  a  dry  wheel  grate  on  an  axle-tree ; 
And  that  would  set  my  teeth  nothing  on  edge, 
Nothing  so  much  as  mincing  poetry ; 
'Tis  like  the  forc'd  gait  of  a  shuffling  nag. 

Mort.  Peace,  cousin  Percy  ;  you  will  make  him  mad. 

Glend.  I  can  call  spirits  from  the  vasty  deep. 

Hot.  Why,  so  can  I ;  or  so  can  any  man  : 
But  will  they  come,  when  you  do  call  for  them  ? 

Glend.  Why,  I  can  teach  you,  cousin,  to  command 
The  de'-e. 

Hot.  And  I  can  teach  thee,  coz,  to  shame  the  devil, 
By  telling  truth  ;  Tell  truth,  and  shame  the  devil. — 
If  thou  have  power  to  raise  him,  bring  him  hither, 
And  I'll  be  sworn,  I  have  power  to  shame  him  hence. 
O,  while  you  live,  tell  truth^  and  shame  the  devil.— 

Mort.  Come,  come, 
No  more  of  this  unprofitable  chat. 

Glend.  Three  times  hath  Henry  Bolingbroke  made  head 
Against  my  power :  thrice  from  the  banks  of  Wyne, 
And  sandy-bottom 'd  Severn,  have  I  sent  him 
Bootless  home,  and  weather-beaten  back. 

Hot.  Home  without  boots,  and  in  foul  weather  too  ! 
How  'scapes  he  agues  ? 

The  following  scene  is  admirably  descriptive  of  the  characters  of  Henry  IV.  and  Jus 
young  Prince  of  Wales. 

SCENE  II.— London.     A  Room  in  ike  Palace. 
Enter  KING  HENRY,  PRINCE  OF  WALES,  and  Lords. 
K.  Hen.  Lords,  give  us  leave  ;  the  Prince  of  Wales  and  I 
Must  have  some  conference  :  But  be  near  at  hand, 
For  we  shall  presently  have  need  of  you. —  [Ex.  Lords. 

I  know  not  whether  God  will  have  it  so, 
For  some  displeasing  service  I  have  done, 
That,  in  his  secret  doom,  out  of  my  blood 
He'll  breed  revengement  and  a  scourge  for  me  ; 
But  thou  dost,  in  thy  passages  of  life, 
Make  me  believe, — that  thou  art  only  mark'd 
For  the  hot  vengeance  and  the  rod  of  heaven, 
To  punish  my  mis-treadings.     Tell  me  else, 


424  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Could  such  inordinate,  and  low  desires, 

Such  poor,  such  bare,  such  lewd,  such  mean  attempts, 

Such  barren  pleasures,  rude  society, 

As  thou  art  match'd  withal,  and  grafted  to, 

Accompany  the  greatness  of  thy  blood, 

And  hold  their  level  with  thy  princely  heart  ? 

P.  Hen.  So  please  your  majesty,  I  would,  I  could 
Quit  all  offences  with  as  clear  excuse, 
As  well  as,  I  am  doubtless,  I  can  purge 
Myself  of  many  I  am  charg'd  withal : 
Yet  such  extenuation  let  me  beg, 
As,  in  reproof  of  many  tales  devis'd, — 
Which  oft  the  ear  of  greatness  needs  must  hear, — 
By  smiling  pick-thanks  and  base  newsmongers, 
I  may,  for  some  things  true,  wherein  my  youth 
Hath  faulty  wander'd  and  irregular, 
Find  pardon  on  my  true  submission. 

K.  Hen.  Heaven  pardon  thee  !— ^yet  let  me  wonder,  Harry, 
At  thy  affections,  which  do  hold  a  wing 
Quite  from  the  flight  of  all  thy  ancestors. 
Thy  place  in  council  thou  hast  rudely  lost, 
Which  by  thy  younger  brother  is  supplied ; 
And  art  almost  an  alien  to  the  hearts 
Of  all  the  court  and  princes  of  my  blood ; 
The  hope  and  expectation  of  thy  time 
Is  ruin'd ;  and  the  soul  of  every  man 
Prophetically  does  forethink  thy  fall. 
Had  I  so  lavish  of  my  presence  been, 
So  common-hackney'd  in  the  eyes  of  men, 
So  stale  and  cheap  to  vulgar  company ; 
Opinion,  that  did  help  me  to  the  crown, 
Had  still  kept  loyal  to  possession  ; 
And  left  me  in  reputeless  banishment, 
A  fellow  of  no  mark,  nor  likelihood. 
By  being  seldom  seen,  I  could  not  stir, 
But,  like  a  comet,  I  was  wonder'd  at : 
That  men  would  tell  their  children,  This  is  he ; 
Others  would  say, — Where?  which  is  Bolingbrdce? 
And  then  I  stole  all  courtesy  from  heaven, 
And  dress'd  myself  in  such  humility, 
That  I  did  pluck  allegiance  from  men's  hearts, 
Loud  shouts  and  salutations  from  their  mouths, 
Even  in  the  presence  of  the  crowned  king. 
Thus  did  I  keep  my  person  fresh,  and  new ; 
My  presence,  like  a  robe  pontifical, 
Ne'er  seen,  but  wonder'd  at :  and  so  my  state, 
Seldom,  but  sumptuous,  showed  like  a  feast ; 
And  won,  by  rareness,  such  solemnity. 
The  skipping  king,  he  ambled  up  and  down 


KING   HENRY    IV. 

With  shallow  jesters,  and  rash  bavin  wits, 

Soon  kindled,  and  soon  burn'd  :  carded  his  state ; 

Mingled  his  royalty  with  capering  fools ; 

Had  his  great  name  profaned  with  their  scorns: 

And  gave  his  countenance,  against  his  name, 

To  laugh  at  gibing  boys,  and  stand  the  push 

Of  every  beardless  vain  comparative  : 

Grew  a  companion  to  the  common  streets, 

EnfeofTd  himself  to  popularity : 

That  being  daily  swallow'd  by  men's  eyes, 

They  surfeited  with  honey  ;  and  began 

To  loathe  the  taste  of  sweetness,  whereof  a  little 

More  than  a  little  is  by  much  too  much. 

So,  when  he  had  occasion  to  be  seen, 

He  was  but  as  the  cuckoo  is  in  June, 

Heard,  not  regarded  ;  seen,  but  with  such  eyes, 

As,- sick  and  blunted  with  community,  * 

Afford  no  extraordinary  gaze, 

Such  as  is  bent  on  sun-like  majesty 

When  it  shines  seldom  in  admiring  eyes : 

But  rather  drowz'd  and  hung  their  eyelids  down, 

Slept  in  his  face,  and  render'd  such  aspect 

As  cloudy  men  use  to  their  adversaries  ; 

Being  with  his  presence  glutted,  gorg'd,  and  full. 

And  in  that  very  line,  Harry,  stand'st  thou : 

For  thou  hast  lost  thy  princely  privilege, 

With  vile  participation  ;  not  an  eye 

But  is  a-weary  of  thy  common  sight, 

Save  mine,  which  hath  desir'd  to  see  thee  more  ; 

Which  now  doth  that  I  would  not  have  it  do, 

Make  blind  itself  with  foolish  tenderness. 

P.  Hen.  I  shall  hereafter,  my  thrice-gracious  lord, 
Be  more  myself. 

K.  Hen.  For  all  the  world, 

As  thou  art  to  this  hour,  was  Richard  then 
When  I  from  France  set  foot  at  Ravenspurg ; 
And  even  as  I  was  then,  is  Percy  now. 
Now  by  my  sceptre,  and  my  soul  to  boot, 
He  hath  more  worthy  interest  to  the  state, 
Than  thou,  the  shadow  of  succession  : 
For,  of  no  right,  nor  color  like  to  right, 
He  doth  fill  fields  with  harness  in  the  realm : 
Turns  head  against  the  lion's  armed  jaws  ; 
And,  being  no  more  in  debt  to  years  than  thou, 
Leads  ancient  lords  and  reverend  bishops  on, 
To  bloody  battles,  and  to  bruising  arms. 
What  never-dying  nonor  hath  he  got 
Against  renowned  Douglas  ;  whose  high  deeds, 


426  SHAKSPEARIAN    HEADER. 

Whose  hot  incursions,  and  great  name  in  arms, 

Holds  from  all  soldiers  chief  majority, 

And  military  title  capital, 

Through  all  the  kingdoms  that  acknowledge  Christ  ? 

Thrice  hath  this  Hotspur  Mars  in  swathing  clothes, 

This  infant  warrior  in  his  enterprises 

Discomfited  great  Douglas  :  ta'en  him  once, 

Enlarg'd  him,  and  made  a  friend  of  him, 

To  fill  the  mouth  of  deep  defiance  up, 

And  shake  the  peace  and  safety  of  our  throne. 

And  what  say  you  to  this  ?  Percy,  Northumberland, 

The  archbishop's  grace  of  York,  Douglas,  Mortimer, 

Capitulate  against  us,  and  are  up. 

But  wherefore  do  I  tell  these  news  to  thee  ? 

Why,  Harry,  do  I  tell  thee  of  my  foes, 

Which  art  my  near'st  and  dearest  enemy  ? 

Thou  that  art  like  enough,-M;hrough  vassal  fear, 

Base  inclination,  and  the  start  of  spleen, — 

To  fight  against  me  under  Percy's  pay, 

To  dog  his  heels,  and  court'sy  at  his  frowns, 

To  show  how  much  degenerate  thou  art  ? 

P.  Hen.  Do  not  think  so,  you  shall  not  find  it  so ; 
And  Heaven  forgive  them,  that  have  so  much  sway'd 
Your  majesty's  good  thoughts  away  from  me  ! 
I  will  redeem  all  this  on  Percy's  head, 
And,  in  the  closing  of  some  glorious  day, 
Be  bold  to  tell  you,  that  I  am  your  son ; 
When  I  will  wear  a  garment  all  of  blood, 
And  stain  my  favors  in  a  bloody  mask, 
Which,  wash'd  away,  shall  scour  my  shame  with  it. 
And  that  shall  be  the  day,  whene'er  it  lights, 
That  this  same  child  of  honor  and  renown, 
This  gallant  Hotspur,  this  all-praised  knight, 
And  your  unthought-of  Harry,  chance  to  meet. 
For  every  honor  sitting  on  his  helm, 
Would  they  were  multitudes ;  and  on  my  head 
My  shames  redoubled !  for  the  time  will  come, 
That  I  shall  make  this  northern  youth  exchange 
His  glorious  deeds  for  my  indignities. 
Percy  is  but  my  factor,  good  my  lord, 
To  engross  up  glorious  deeds  on  my  behalf; 
And  I  will  call  him  to  so  strict  account, 
That  he  shall  render  every  glory  up, 
Yea,  even  the  slightest  worship  of  his  time, 
Or  I  will  tear  the  reckoning  from  his  heart. 
This,  in  the  name  of  Heaven,  I  promise  here : 
The  which  if  it  be  pleas'd  I  shall  perform, 
I  do  beseech  your  majesty,  may  salve 


KING    HENRY   IV.  427 


The  long-grown  wounds  of  my  intemperance : 
If  not,  the  end  of  life  cancels  all  bands ; 
And  I  will  die  a  hundred  thousand  deaths, 
Ere  break  the  smallest  parcel  of  this  vow. 

K.  Hen.  A  hundred  thousand  rebels  die  in  this :— 
Thou  shalt  have  charge,  and  sovereign  trust,  herein. 


KING  HENRY  VIII. 


Many  of  the  incidents  of  this  Play,  and  much  of  the  dialogue,  were  taken  ny  Shakfr 
peare  from  chronicles  of  Hollingshed  and  Stowe,  who  were  themselves  indebted  to  "  Cay 
endish's  Life  of  Wolsey  "  for  most  of  the  particulars  they  gave  of  the  Cardinal's  history 

Shakspeare  has  depicted  the  character  of  the  gentle  and  noble-hearted  Katharine  of 
Arragon,  with  such  felicitous  skill,  that  the  scenes  in  which  she  is  introduced  are  con- 
sidered among  the  finest  efforts  of  the  Poet's  genius. 

The  haughty  Wolsey,  is  also  a  powerfully  drawn  picture.  Our  selections  are  devoted 
to  the  display  of  these  two  master-pieces  of  historical  dramatic  composition. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 

KING  HENRY  THE  EIGHTH. 

CARDINAL  WOLSEY. 

CARDINAL  CAMPEIUS. 

CAPUCIUS,  Ambassador  from  the  Emperor ,  Charles  V. 

CRANMER,  Archbishop  of  Canterbury. 

DUKE  OF  NORFOLK. 

DUKE  OF  BUCKINGHAM. 

DUKE  OF  SUFFOLK. 

EARL  OF  SURREY. 

Lord  Chamberlain. 

Lord  Chancellor. 

GARDINER,  Bishop  of  Winchester. 

BISHOP  OF  LINCOLN. 

LORD  ABERGAVENNY. 

LORD  SANDS. 

Sir  HENRY  GUILFORD. 

Sir  THOMAS  LOVELL. 

Sir  ANTHONY  DENNY. 

Sir  NICHOLAS  VAUX. 

Secretaries  to  Wolsey. 

CROMWELL,  servant  to  Wolsey. 

GRIFFITH,  Gentleman-  Usher  to  Queen  Katharine. 

Three  other  Gentlemen. 


KING    HENRY    VIII.  41i9 

Doctor  BUTTS,  physician  to  the  King. 
Garter  King  at  Arms. 
Surveyor  to  the  Duke  of  Buckingham. 
BRANDON,  and  a  Sergeant  at  Arms. 
Doorkeeper  of  the  Council- Chamber. 
Porter,  and  his  man. 
Page  to  Gardiner. 
A  Crier. 

QUEEN  KATHARINE,  wife  to  King  Henry,  afterwards  divorced. 
ANNE  BULLEN,  her  Maid  of  Honor,  afterwards  Queen. 
An  old  Lady,  friend  to  Anne  Bullen. 
PATIENCE,  woman  to  Queen  Katharine. 

Several  Lords  and  Ladies  in  the  Dumb  Shows;  Women  attending  upon 
the  Queen  ;  Spirits  which  appear  to  her  ;  Scribes,  Officers,  Guards, 
and  other  Attendants. 

SCENE, — chiefly  in  LONDON  and  WESTMINSTER,  once  at  KIMBOLTON. 


ACT  I. 

Queen  Katharine  incurred  the  jealousy  and  hatred  of  Wolsey,  by  her  opposition  to 
his  overbearing  arrogance,  and  the  exactions  he  was  continually  enforcing  on  the  people. 

Shakspeare  introduces  the  Queen,  as  a  suitor  to  the  King,  on  the  subject  of  these 
oppressions  of  the  people. 

SCENE  II.— The  Council- Chamber. 

Cornets.  Enter  KING  HENRY,  CARDINAL  WOLSEY,  the  Lords  of  the 
Council,  Sir  THOMAS  LOVELL,  Officers,  and  Attendants.  Tlie 
KING  enters,  leaning  on  the  CARDINAL'S  shoulder. 

K.  Hen.  My  life  itself,  and  the  best  heart  of  it, 
Thanks  you  for  this  great  care  :  I  stood  i*  the  level 
Of  a  full-charged  confederacy,  and  give  thanks 
To  you  that  chok'd  it. 

The  KING  takes  his  State.  The  Lords  of  the  Council  take  their  several 
places.  The  CARDINAL  places  himself  under  the  KING'S  feet,  on  his 
right  side. 

A  noise  within,  crying,  Room  for  the  Queen !  Enter  the  QUEEN, 
ushered  by  the  DUKES  OF  NORFOLK  and  SUFFOLK  :  she  kneels.  Tfie 
KING  rises  from  his  State,  takes  her  up,  kisses,  and  places  her  by 
him. 

Q.  Kath.  Nay,  we  must  longer  kneel ;  I  am  a  suitor. 

K.  Hen.  Arise,  and  take  place  by  us  : — Half  your  suit 
Never  name  to  us ;  you  have  half  our  power ; 
The  other  moiety,  ere  you  ask,  is  given ; 
Repeat  your  will,  and  take  it. 


430  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Q.  Kath.  Thank  your  majesty, 

That  you  would  love  yourself;  and,  in  that  love, 
Not  unconsider'd  leave  your  honor,  nor 
The  dignity, of  your  office,  is  the  point 
Of  my  petition. 

K.  Hen.  Lady  mine,  proceed. 

Q.  Kath.  I  am  solicited,  not  by  a  few, 
And  those  of  true  condition,  that  your  subjects 
Are  in  great  grievance  :  there  have  been  commissions 
Sent  down  among  them,  which  have  flaw'd  the  heart 
Of  all  their  loyalties  : — wherein,  although, 
My  good  lord  cardinal,  they  vent  reproaches 
Most  bitterly  on  you,  as  putter-on 
Of  these  exactions,  yet  the  king  our  master, 
(Whose  honor  heaven  shield  from  soil !)  even  he  escapes  not 
Language  unmannerly,  yea,  such  which  breaks 
The  sides  of  loyalty,  and  almost  appears 
In  loud  rebellion. 

Nor.  Not  almost  appears, 

Tt  doth  appear  :  for  upon  these  taxations, 
The  clothiers  all,  not  able  to  maintain 
The  many  to  them  'longing,  have  put  off 
The  spinsters,  carders,  fullers,  weavers,  who, 
Unfit  for  other  life,  compell'd  by  hunger, 
And  lack  of  other  means,  in  desperate  manner 
Daring  the  event  to  the  teeth,  are  all  in  uproar, 
And  Danger  serves  among  them. 

K.  Hen.  Taxation ! 

Wherein  ?  and  what  taxation  ? — My  lord  cardinal, 
You  that  are  blam'd  for  it  alike  with  us, 
Know  you  of  this  taxation  ? 

Wol.  Please  you,  sir, 

I  know  but  of  a  single  part,  in  aught 
Pertains  to  the  state  ;  and  front  but  in  that  file 
Where  others  tell  steps  with  me. 

Q.  Kath.  No,  my  lord, 

You  know  no  more  than  others  :  but  you  frame 
Things,  that  are  known  alike  ;  which  are  not  wholesome 
To  those  which  would  not  know  them,  and  yet  must 
Perforce  be  their  acquaintance.     These  exactions 
Whereof  my  sovereign  would  have  note,  they  are 
Most  pestilent  to  the  hearing ;  and  to  bear  them, 
The  back  is  sacrifice  to  the  load.     They  say, 
They  are  devis'd  by  you ;  or  else  you  suffer 
Too  hard  an  exclamation. 

K.  Hen.  Still  exaction ! 

The  nature  of  it  ?  In  what  kind,  let's  know, 
Is  this  exaction  ? 

Q.  Kath.  I  am  much  too  venturous 


KING    HENRY    VIII.  431 

In  tempting  of  your  patience  ;  but  am  bolden'd 

Under  your  promis'd  pardon.     The  subject's  grief 

Comes  through  commissions,  which  compel  from  each 

The  sixth  part  of  his  substance,  to  be  levied 

Without  delay  ;  and  the  pretence  for  this 

Is  nam'd,  your  wars  in  France :  This  makes  bold  mouths : 

Tongues  spit  their  duties  out,  and  cold  hearts  freeze 

Allegiance  in  them ;  their  curses  now, 

Live  where  their  prayers  did ;  and  it's  come  to  pass, 

That  tractable  obedience  is  a  slave 

To  each  incensed  will.     I  would,  your  highness 

Would  give  it  quick  consideration,  for 

There  is  no  primer  business. 

K.  Hen.  By  my  life, 

This  is  against  our  pleasure. 

Wol.  And  for  me, 

I  have  no  further  gone  in  this,  than  by 
A  single  voice ;  and  that  not  pass'd  me,  but 
By  learned  approbation  of  the  judges. 
If  I  am  traduc'd  by  tongues,  which  neither  know 
My  faculties,  nor  person,  yet  will  be 
The  chronicles  of  my  doing, — let  me  say, 
'Tis  but  the  fate  of  place,  and  the  rough  brake 
That  virtue  must  go  through.  We  must  not  stint 
Our  necessary  actions,  in  the  fear 
To  cope  malicious  censurers ;  which  ever, 
As  ravenous  fishes,  do  a  vessel  follow 
That  is  new  trimm'd ;  but  benefit  no  further 
Than  vainly  longing.     What  we  oft  do  best, 
By  sick  interpreters,  once  weak  ones,  is 
Not  ours,  or  not  allow'd  ;  what  worst,  as  oft, 
Hitting  a  grosser  quality,  is  cried  up 
For  our  best  act.     If  we  shall  stand  still, 
In  fear  our  motion  will  be  mock'd  or  carp'd  at, 
We  should  take  root  here  where  we  sit,  or  sit 
State  statues  only. 

K.  Hen.  Things  done  well, 

And  with  a  care,  exempt  themselves  from  fear ; 
Things  done  without  example,  in  their  issue 
Are  to  be  fear'd.     Have  you  a  precedent 
Of  this  commission  ?  I  believe,  not  any. 
We  must  not  rend  our  subjects  from  our  laws, 
And  stick  them  in  our  will.     Sixth  part  of  each  2 
A  trembling  contribution  !    Why,  we  take, 
From  every  tree,  lop,  bark,  and  part  o'  the  timber; 
And,  though  we  leave  it  with  a  root,  thus  hack'd, 
The  air  will  drink  the  sap.     To  every  county, 
Where  this  is  question'd,  send  our  letters,  with 
Free  pardon  to  each  man  that  has  denied 


432  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

The  force  of  this  commission :  Pray,  look  to't ; 
I  put  it  to  your  care. 

Wol.  A  word  with  you.  [  To  tlie  Secretary 

Let  there  be  /etters  writ  to  every  shire, 
Of  the  king's  grace  and  pardon.     The  griev'd  commons 
Hardly  conceive  of  me ;  let  it  be  nois'd, 
That,  through  our  intercession,  this  revokement 
And  pardon  comes  :  I  shall  anon  advise  you 
Further  in  the  proceeding. 


ACT  II. 

King  Henry  VIII.  having  determined  to  divorce  Katharine,  obtains  a  commission  from 
Rome,  to  try  the  causes  which  have  induced  him  to  dissolve  his  marriage.  The  Pope 
rends  Cardinal  Campeius,  who  in  conjunction  with  Wolsey  are  appointed  to  act  as  judges 
at  the  Queen's  trial. 

SCENE  IV.— A  Hall  in  Black-Friars. 
Court  assembled  for  the  Trial. 

Wol.  Whilst  our  commission  from  Rome  is  read, 
Let  silence  be  commanded. 

K.  Hen.  What's  the  need  ? 

It  hath  already  publicly  been  read, 
And  on  all  sides  the  authority  allow'd ; 
You  may  then  spare  that  time. 

Wol.  Be't  so :— Proceed. 

Scribe.  Say,  Henry  king  of  England,  come  into  the  court. 

Crier.  Henry  king  of  England,  come  into  court. 

K.  Hen.  Here. 

Scribe.  Say,  Katharine  queen  of  England,  come  into  court. 

Crier.  Katharine  queen  of  England,  come  into  court. 

[  The  QUEEN  makes  no  answer,  rises  out  of  her  chair,  goes  about  the 
court,  comes  to  the  KING,  and  kneels  at  his  feet ;  then  speaks. 

Q.  Kaih.  Sir,  I  desire  you,  do  me  right  and  justice  ; 
And  to  bestow  your  pity  on  me  :  for 
I  am  a  most  poor  woman,  and  a  stranger, 
Born  out  of  your  dominions ;  having  here 
No  judge  indifferent,  nor  no  more  assurance 
Of  equal  friendship  and  proceeding.     Alas,  sir, 
In  what  have  I  offended  you  ?  what  cause 
Hath  my  behavior  given  to  your  displeasure, 
That  thus  you  should  proceed  to  put  me  off, 
And  take  your  good  grace  from  me  ?  Heaven  witness, 
I  have  been  to  you  a  true  and  humble  wife, 
At  all  times  to  your  will  conformable  : 
Ever  in  fear  to  kindle  your  dislike, 


KING   HENRY   VIII.  433 

Yea,  subject  to  your  countenance ;  glad,  or  sorry, 

As  I  saw  it  inclin'd.     When  was  the  hour, 

I  ever  contradicted  your  desire, 

Or  made  it  not  mine  too  ?  Or  which  of  your  friends 

Have  I  not  strove  to  love,  although  I  knew 

He  were  mine  enemy  ?  what  friend  of  mine 

That  had  to  him  deriv'd  your  anger,  did  I 

Continue  in  my  liking  ?  nay,  gave  notice 

He  was  from  thence  discharged  ?  Sir,  call  to  mind 

That  I  have  been  your  wife,  in  this  obedience, 

Upwards  of  twenty  years.     If,  in  the  course 

And  process  of  this  time,  you  can  report, 

And  prove  it  too,  against  mine  honor  aught, 

My  bond  to  wedlock,  or  my  love  and  duty, 

Against  your  sacred  person,  in  God's  name, 

Turn  me  away  ;  and  let  the  foul'st  contempt 

Shut  door  upon  me,  and  so  give  me  up 

To  the  sharpest  kind  of  justice.     Please  you,  sir 

The  king,  your  father,  was  reputed  for 

A  prince  most  prudent,  of  an  excellent 

And  unmatch'd  wit  and  judgment :  Ferdinand, 

My  father,  king  of  Spain,  was  reckon'd  one 

The  wisest  prince,  that  there  had  reign'd  by  many 

A  year  before  :  It  is  not  to  be  question'd 

That  they  had  gather'd  a  wise  council  to  them 

Of  every  realm,  that  did  debate  this  business, 

Who  deem'd  our  marriage  lawful :  Wherefore  I  humhfc 

Beseech  you,  sir,  to  spare  me,  till  I  may 

Be  by  my  friends  in  Spain  advis'd ;  whose  counsel 

I  will  implore  ;  if  not,  i'  the  name  of  God, 

Your  pleasure  be  fulfill'd  ! 

Wol.  You  have  here,  lady, 

(And  of  your  choice,)  these  reverend  fathers  ;  men 
Of  singular  integrity  and  learning, 
Yea,  the  elect  of  the  land,  who  are  assembled 
To  plead  your  cause ;  It  shall  be  therefore  bootless, 
That  longer  you  desire  the  court ;  as  well 
For  your  own  quiet,  as  to  rectify 
What  is  unsettled  in  the  king. 

Cam.  His  grace 

Hath  spoken  well,  and  justly :  Therefore,  madam, 
It's  fit  this  royal  session  do  proceed  ; 
And  that,  without  delay,  thei*-  arguments 
Be  now  produc'd,  and  heard. 

Q.  Kath.  Lord  cardinal.— 

To  you  I  speak. 

Wol.  Your  pleasure,  madam  ? 

Q.  Kath.  Sir, 

I  am  about  to  weep ;  but,  thinking  that 
20 


434  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

We  are  a  queen,  (or  long  have  dream'd  so,)  certain, 
The  daughter  of  a  king,  my  drops  of  tears 
I'll  turn  to  sparks  of  fire. 

Wol.  Be  patient  yet. 

Q.  Kath.  I  will,  when  you  are  humble  ;  nay,  before. 
Or  Heaven  will  punish  me.     I  do  believe, 
Induc'd  by  potent  circumstances,  that 
You  are  mine  enemy  ;  and  make  my  challenge  ; 
You  shall  not  be  my  judge  :  for  it  is  you 
Have  blown  this  coal  betwixt  my  lord  and  me.— 
Therefore,  I  say  again, 
I  utterly  abhor,  yea,  from  my  soul, 
Refuse  you  for  my  judge  :  whom,  yet  once  more, 
I  hold  my  most  malicious  foe,  and  think  not 
At  all  a  friend  to  truth. 

Wol.  I  do  profess, 

You  speak  not  like  yourself;  who  ever  yet 
Have  stood  to  charity,  and  di splay 'd  the  effects 
Of  disposition  gentle,  and  of  wisdom 
O'ertopping  woman's  power.     Madam,  you  do  me  wrong  j 
I  have  no  spleen  against  you ;  nor  injustice 
For  you,  or  any  :  how  far  I  have  proceeded, 
Or  how  far  further  shall,  is  warranted 
By  a  commission  from  the  consistory, 
Yea,  the  whole  consistory  of  Rome.     You  chargejne, 
That  I  have  blown  this  coal :  I  do  deny  it. 
The  king  is  present :  if  it  be  known  to  him, 
That  I  gainsay  my  deed,  how  may  he  wound, 
And  worthily,  my  fa  sehood  ?  yea,  as  much 
As  you  have  done  my  truth.     But  if  he  know 
That  I  am  free  of  your  report,  he  knows, 
I  am  not  of  your  wrong.     Therefore  in  him 
It  lies,  to  cure  me ;  and  the  cure  is,  to 
Remove  these  thoughts  from  you  ;    the  which  before 
His  highness  shall  speak  in,  I  do  beseech 
You,  gracious  madam,  to  unthink  your  speaking, 
And  to  say  no  more. 

Q.  Kath.  My  lord,  my  lord, 

I  am  a  simple  woman,  much  too  weak 

To  oppose  your  cunning.     You  are  meek,  and  humble-moutn'ci  j 
You  sign  your  place  and  calling,  in  full  seeming 
With  meekness  and  humility  :  but  your  hear* 
Is  cramm'd  with  arrogancy,  spleen, *and  pride. 
You  have,  by  fortune,  and  his  highness'  favors, 
Gone  slightly  o'er  low  steps ;  and  now  are  mounted 
Where  powers  are  your  retainers  :  and  your  words, 
Domestics  to  you,  serve  your  will,  as't  please 
Yourself  pronounce  their  office.     I  must  tell  you, 
You  tender  more  your  person's  honor,  than 


KING    HENRY    VIII.  435 

Your  high  profession  spiritual :  That  again 
I  do  refuse  you  for  my  judge ;  and  here, 
Before  you  all,  appeal  unto  the  pope, 
To  bring  my  whole  cause  'fore  his  holiness, 
And  to  be  judg'd  by  him. 

[She  curfsies  to  the  KING,  and  offers  to  depart. 

Cam.  The  queen  is  obstinate, 

Stubborn  to  justice,  apt  to  accuse  it,  and 
Disdainful  to  be  try'd  by  it ;  'tis  not  well. 
She's  going  away. 

K.  Hen.  Call  her  again. 

Crier.  Katharine  queen  of  England,  come  into  the  court. 

Grif.  Madam,  you  are  call'd  back. 

Q.  Kath.  What  need  you  note  it  ?  pray  you,  keep  your  way 
When  you  are  call'd,  return. — Now  the  Ix>rd  help, 
They  vex  me  past  my  patience  ! — pray  you,  pass  on : 
I  will  not  tarry  :  no,  nor  ever  more, 
Upon  this  business,  my  appearance  make 

In  any  of  their  courts.  [Exeunt  QUEEN,  GRIFFITH, 

and  her  other  Attendants. 

K.  Hen.  Go  thy  ways,  Kate : 

That  man  i'the  world,  who  shall  report  he  has 
A  better  wife,  let  him  in  nought  be  trusted, 
For  speaking  false  in  that :  Thou  art  alone, 
(If  thy  rare  qualities,  sweet  gentleness, 
Thy  meekness  saint-like,  wife-like  government, — 
Obeying  in  commanding, — and  thy  parts 
Sovereign  and  pious  else,  could  speak  thee  out,) 
The  queen  of  earthly  queens  : — She  is  noble  born; 
And,  like  her  true  nobility,  she  has 
Car  ried  herself  towards  me. 

ACT  III. 

Queen  Katharine  is  divorced,  and  Henry  marries  Anne  Bullen.  The  power  of  Wolsey 
over  the  King  gradually  declines,  and  the  nobles  of  the  Court  plot  against  him.  The  lords 
of  Suffolk  and  Norfolk  are  particularly  his  enemies ;  and  learning  that  Wolsey  has  J>y 
accident  given  several  documents  to  the  King,  containing  private  memorandums  of  ha 
intrigues,  and  statements  of  his  vast  wealth,  they  are  waiting  to  learn  the  effect  of  thil 
disclosure. 

WOLSEY  and  CROMWELL,  SUFFOLK  and  NORFOLK. 

Nor.  Observe,  observe,  he's  moody. 

Wol.  The  packet,  Cromwell,  gave  it  you  the  king? 

Crom.  To  his  own  hand,  in  his  bedchamber. 

Wol.  Look'd  he  o'  the  inside  of  the  paper  ? 

Crom.  Presently 

He  did  unseal  them  :  and  the  first  he  view'd, 
He  dtf  it  with  a  serious  mind ;  a  heed 


486  ,  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

Was  in  his  countenance  !     You,  he  bade 
Attend  him  here  this  morning. 

WoL  Is  he  ready 

To  come  abroad  ? 

Crom.  I  think,  by  this  he  is. 

Wol.  Leave  me  a  while, — 
It  shall  be  to  the  duchess  of  Alen£on, 
The  French  king's  sister  :  he  shall  marry  her. — 
Anne  Bullen  !    No ;  I'll  no  Anne  Bu liens  lor  him, 
There  is  more  in  it  than  fair  visage. — Bullen  ! 
No,  we'll  no  Bullens. — Speedily  I  wish 
To  hear  from  Rome. — The  marchioness  of  Pembroke ! 

Nor.  He's  discontented. 

Suf.  May  be,  he  hears  the  king 

Does* whet  his  anger  to  him. 

Sur.  Sharp  enough, 

Lord,  for  thy  justice  ! 

WoL  The  late  queen's  gentlewoman  :  a  knight's  daughter,  ' 
To  be  her  mistress'  mistress  !  the  queen's*  queen  ! — 
This  candle  burns  not  clear;  'tis  I  must  snuff  it; 
Then,  out  it  goes. — What  though  I  know  her  virtuous, 
And  well  deserving  ?  yet  I  know  her  for 
A  spleeny  Lutheran,  and  not  wholesome  to 
Our  cause.     Again,  there  is  sprung  up 
An  heretic,  an  arch  one,  Cranmer ;  one 
Hath  crawl'd  into  the  favor  of  the  king, 
And  is  his  oracle. 

Nor.  He  is  vex'd  at  something. 

8uf.  I  would,  'twere  something  that  would  fret  the  string 
The  master -cord  of  his  heart ! 

Enter  the  KING,  reading"  a  schedule;  and  LOVELL. 

Suf.  The  king,  the  king. 

K.  Hen.  What  piles  of  wealth  hath  he  accumulated 
To  his  own  portion !  and  what  expense  by  the  hour 
Seems  to  flow  from  him  !     How,  i'  the  name  of  thrift 
Does  he  rake  this  together  ! — Now,  my  lords  ; 
Saw  you  the  cardinal  ? 

Nor.  My  lord,  we  have 

Stood  here  observing  him :  Some  strange  commotion 
Is  in  his  brain :  he  bites  his  lip,  and  starts ; 
Stops  on  a  sudden,  looks  upon  the  ground, 
Then,  lays  his  finger  on  his  temple  ;  straight, 
Springs  out  into  fast  gait ;  then,  stops  again, 
Strikes  his  breast  hard ;  and  anon,  he  casts 
His  eye  against  the  moon :  in  most  strange  postures 
We  have  seen  him  set  himself. 

K.  Hen.  It  may  well  be ; 

There  is  a  mutiny  in  his  mind.     This  morning 


KING    HENRY    VIII.  437 

Papers  of  state  he  sent  me  to  peruse, 
As  I  requir'd ;  And,  wot  you,  what  I  found 
There  ;  on  my  conscience,  put  unwittingly  ? 
Forsooth,  an  inventory,  thus  importing, — 
The  several  parcels  of  his  plate,  his  treasure, 
Rich  stuffs,  and  ornaments  of  household ;  which 
I  find  at  such  proud  rate,  that  it  out-speaks 
Posession   of  a  subject. 

Nor.  It's  Heaven's  will ; 

Some  spirit  put  this  paper  in  the  packet 
To  bless  your  eye  withal. 

K.  Hen.  If  we  did  think 

His  contemplation  were  above  the  earth, 
And  fix'd  on  spiritual  object,  he  should  still 
Dwell  in  his  musings  :  but,  I  am  afraid, 
His  thinkings  are  below  the  moon,  not  worth 
His  serious  considering. 

[He  lakes  his  seat,  and  whispers  LOVELL,  who  goes  to  WOLSEY 

Wol.  Heaven  forgive  me ! 

Ever  Heaven  bless  your  highness  ! 

K.  Hen.  Good  my  lord, 

You  are  full  of  heavenly  stuff,  and  bear  the  inventory 
Of  your  best  graces  in  your  mind  ;  the  which 
You  were  now  running  o'er ;  you  have  scarce  time 
To  steal  from  spiritual  leisure  a  brief  span 
To  keep  your  earthly  audit :  Sure,  in  that 
I  deem  you  an  ill  husband  :  and  am  glad 
To  have  you  therein  my  companion. 

Wol.  Sir, 

For  holy  offices  I  have  a  time ;  a  time 
To  think  upon  the  part  of  business,  which 
I  bear  i'  the  stale  ;  and  nature  does  require 
Her  times  of  preservation,  which,  perforce, 
I  her  frail  son,  amongst  my  brethren  mortal, 
Must  give  my  tendance  to. 

K.  Hen.    "  You  have  said  well. 

Wol.  And  ever  may  your  highness  yoke  togethei 
As  I  will  lend  you  cause,  my  doing  well 
With  my  well-saying. 

K.  Hen.  'Tis  well  said  again  ; 

And  'tit  a  kind  of  good  deed,  to  say  well : 
And  yet  words  are  no  deeds.     My  father  lov'd  you : 
He  said,  he  did ;  and  with  his  deed  did  crown 
His  word  upon  you.     Since  I  had  my  office, 
I  have  kopt  you  next  my  heart ;  have  not  alone 
Employ'd  you  where  high  profits  might  come  homo, 
But  par'd  my  present  havings,  to  bestow 
My  bounties  upon  you. 

Wol.  What  should  this  mean  ? 


438  SHAKSIEARIAN    READER. 

K.  Hen.  Have  I  not  made  you 

The  prime  man  of  the  state  ?    I  pray  you,  tell  me, 
If  what  I  now  pronounce,  you  have  found  true : 
And,  if  you  may  confess  it,  say  withal, 
If  you  are  bound  to  us,  or  no.     What  say  you  ? 

Wol.  My  sovereign,  I  confess,  your  royal  graces, 
Shower'd  on  me  daily,  have  been  more,  than  could 
My  studied  purposes  requite  ;  which  went 
Beyond  all  man's  endeavors  : — my  endeavors 
Have  ever  come  too  short  of  my  desires, 
Yet,  fill'd  with  my  abilities  :  Mine  own  ends 
Have  been  mine  so,  that  evermore  they  pointed 
To  the  good  of  your  most  sacred  person,  and 
The  profit  of  the  state.     For  your  great  grace? 
Heap'd  upon  me,  poor  undeserver,  I 
Can  nothing  render  but  allegiant  thanks ; 
My  prayers  to  heaven  for  you  ;  my  loyalty, 
Which  ever  has,  and  ever  shall  be  growing, 
Till  death,  that  winter,  kill  it. 

K.  Hen.  Fairly  answer'd ; 

A  loyal  and  obedient  subject  is 
Therein  illustrated  ;  the  honor  of  it 
Does  pay  the  act  of  it ;  as  i'  the  contrary, 
The  foulness  is  the  punishment.     I  presume 
That,  as  my  hand  has  open'd  bounty  to  you, 
My  heart  dropp'd  love,  my  power  rain'd  honor  more 
On  you,  than  any ;  so  your  hand,  and  heart, 
Your  brain,  and  every  function  of  your  power, 
Should,  notwithstanding  that  your  bond  of  duty, 
As  'twere  in  love's  particular,  be  more 
To  me,  your  friend,  than  any. 

Wol.  I  do  profess, 

That  for  your  highness'  good  I  ever  labor'd 
More  than  mine  own ;  that  am,  have,  and  will  be, 
Though  all  the  world  should  crack  their  duty  tc  you, 
And  throw  it  from  their  soul ;  though  perils  did 
Abound,  as  thick  as  thought  could  make  them,  and 
Appear  in  forms  more  horrid  ;  yet  my  duty, 
As  doth  a  rock  against  the  chiding  flood, 
Should  the  approach  of  this  wild  river  break, 
And  stand  unshaken  yours. 

K.  Hen.  'Tis  nobly  spoken : 

Take  notice,  lords,  he  has  a  loyal  breast, 
For  you  have  seen  him  open  't. — Read  o'er  this  ; 

[Giving  him  papers, 

And,  after,  this :  and  then  to  breakfast,  with 
What  appetite  you  have. 

[Exit  KING,  frowning  upon  CARDINAL  WOLSEY  ;  the 
Nobles  throng  after  him,  smiling,  and  whispering. 


KING    HENRY    VIII.  489 

Wol  What  should  this  mean  ? 

What  sudden  anger's  this ;  how  have  I  reap'd  it  ? 
He  parted  frowning  from  me,  as  if  ruin 
LeapM  from  his  eyes :  so  looks  the  chafed  lion 
Upon  the  daring  huntsman  that  has  gall'd  him ; 
Then  makes  him  nothing.     I  must  read  this  paper; 
I  fear,  the  story  of  his  anger. — 'Tis  so ;     • 
This  paper  has  undone  me : — 'Tis  the  account 
Of  all  that  world  of  wealth  I  have  drawn  together 
For  mine  own  ends ;  indeed,  to  gain  the  popedom, 
And  fee  my  friends  in  Rome.     O  negligence, 
Fit  for  a  fool  to  fall  by !     What  cross  devil 
Made  me  put  this  main  secret  in  the  packet 
I  sent  the  king  ?     Is  there  no  way  to  cure  this  ? 
No  new  device  to  beat  this  from  his  brains  ? 
I  know,  'twill  stir  him  strongly ;  yet  I  know 
A  way,  if  it  take  right,  in  spite  of  fortune 
Will  bring  me  off  again.     What's  this — To  the  Pope? 
The  letter,  as  I  live,  with  all  the  business 
I  writ  to  his  holiness.     Nay  then,  farewell ! 
I  have  touch'd  the  highest  point  of  all  my  greatness : 
And,  from  that  full  meridian  of  my  glory, 
I  haste  now  to  my  setting.     I  shall  fall 
Like  a  bright  exhalation  in  the  evening, 
And  no  man  see  me  more. 

Re-enter  the  DUKES  OF  NORFOLK  and  SUFFOLK,  the  EARL  OF  SURREY, 
and  the  Lord  Chamberlain. 

Nor.  Hear  the  king's  pleasure,  cardinal :  who  commands  you 
To  render  up  the  great  seal  presently 
Into  our  hands  ;  and  to  confine  yourself 
To  Asher-house,  my  lord  of  Winchester's, 
Till  you  hear  further  from  his  highness. 

Where's  your  commission,  lords  ?  words  cannot  carry 
Authority  so  weighty. 

Suf.  Who  dare  cross  them, 

Bearing  the  king's  will  from  his  mouth  expressly  ? 

Wol.  Till  I  find  more  than  will,  or  words,  to  do  it, 
(I  mean,  your  malice,)  know,  officious  lords, 
I  dare,  and  must  deny  it.     Now  I  feel 
Of  what  coarse  metal  ye  are  moulded, — envy. 
How  eagerly  ye  follow  my  disgraces, 
As  if  it  fed  ye !  and  how  sleek  and  wanton 
Ye  appear  in  every  thing  may  bring  my  ruin  ! 
Follow  your  envious  courses,  men  of  malice ; 
You  have  Christian  warrant  for  them,  and,  no  doubt, 
In  time  will  find  their  fit  rewards.     That  seal, 
You  ask  with  such  a  violence,  the  king, 


440  SHAKSPEARIAN    READER. 

(Mine,  and  your  master,)  with  his  own  hand  gave  rne. 
Bade  me  enjoy  it,  with  the  place  and  honors, 
During  my  life,  and,  to  confirm  his  goodness, 
Tied  it  by"  letters  patent :  Now,  who'll  tak»  it  ? 

Sur.  The  king  that  gave  it. 

Wol  It  must  be  himself  then. 

Sur.  Thou  art  a  proud  traitor,  priest. 

Wol  Proud  lord,  thou  liest ; 

Within  these  forty  hours  Surrey  durst  better 
Have  burnt  that  tongue,  than  said  so. 

Sur.  My  lords, 

Can  ye  endure  to  hear  this  arrogance  ? 
And  from  this  fellow  ?     If  we  live  thus  tamely 
To  be  thus  jaded  by  a  piece  of  scarlet, 
Farewell  nobility ;  let  his  grace  go  forward, 
And  dare  us  with  his  cap,  like  larks. 

Wol.  All  goodness 

Is  poison  to  thy  stomach. 

Sur.  Yes,  that  goodness 

Of  gleaning  all  the  land's  wealth  into  one, 
Into  your  own  hands,  cardinal,  by  extortion. 

Wol.  How  much,  methinks,  I  could  despise  this  man, 
But  that  I'm  bound  in  charity  against  it ! 

Suf.  Lord  cardinal,  the  king's  further  pleasure  is,— 
Because  all  those  things,  you  have  done  of  late 
By  your,  power  legatine  within  this  kingdom, 
Fall  into  the  compass  of  a  pramunire, — 
That  therefore  such  a  writ  be  sued  against  you ; 
To  forfeit  all  your  goods,  lands,  tenements, 
Chattels,  and  whatsoever,  and  to  be 
Out  of  the  king's  protection  :— This  is  my  charge. 

Nor.  And  so  we'll  leave  you  to  your  meditations 
How  to  live  better.     For  your  stubborn  answer 
About  the  giving  back  the  great  seal  to  us, 
The  king  shall  know  it,  and,  no  doubt,  shall  thank  you. 
So  fare  you  well,  my  little  good  lord  cardinal. 

[Exeunt  all  but  WU.SEX 

Wol.  So  farewell  to  the  little  good  you  bear  me. 
Farewell,  a  long  farewell,  to  all  my  greatness ! 
This  is  the  state  of  man ;  To-day  he  puts  forth 
The  tender  leaves  of  hope,  to-morrow  blossoms, 
And  bears  his  blushing  honors  thick  upon  him  : 
The  third  day,  comes  a  frost,  a  killing  frost ; 
And, — when  he  thinks,  good  easy  man,  full  surely 
His  greatness  is  a  ripening, — nips  his  root, 
And  then  he  falls,  as  I  do.     I  have  ventur'd, 
Like  little  wanton  boys  that  swim  on  bladders, 
This  many  summers  in  a  sea  of  glory  ; 
But  far  beyond  my  depth  :  my  high-blown  xmde 


KING    HENRY    VIII.  441 

At  length  broke  under  me  ;  and  now  has  left  me, 
Weary,  and  old  with  service,  to  the  mercy 
Of  a  rude  stream,  that  must  for  ever  hide  me. 
Vain  pomp,  and  glory  of  this  world,  I  hate  ye ; 
I  feel  my  heart  new  opened :  O,  how  wretched 
Is  that  poor  man,  that  hangs  on  princes'  favors ! 
There  is,  betwixt  that  smile  we  would  aspire  to, 
That  sweet  aspect  of  princes,  and  their  ruin, 
More  pangs  and  fears  than  wars  or  women  have; 
And  when  he  falls,  he  falls  like  Lucifer, 
Never  to  hope  again. — 

Enter  CROMWELL,  amapedly. 

Why,  how  now,  Cromwell  ? 

Crom.  I  have  no  power  to  speak,  sir. 

Wol  What,  amaz'd 

At  my  misfortunes  ?  can  thy  spirit  wonder, 
A  great  man  should  decline  ?     Nay,  an  you  weep, 
I  am  fallen  indeed. 

Crom.  How  does  your  grace  ? 

Wol  Why  well: 

Never  so  truly  happy,  my  good  Cromwell. 
[  know  myself  now  ;  and  I  feel  within  me 
A  peace  above  all  earthly  dignities, 
A  still  and  quiet  conscience.     The  king  has  cur'd  me, 
I  humbly  thank  his  grace ;  and  from  these  shoulders, 
These  ruin'd  pillars,  out  of  pity,  taken 
A  load  would  sink  a  navy, — too  much  honor : 
O,  'tis  a  burden,  Cromwell,  'tis  a  burden, 
Too  heavy  for  a  man  that  hopes  for  heaven. 

Crom.  I  am  glad,  your  grace  has  made  that  right  use  of  it 

Wol.  I  hope,  I  have :  I  am  able  now,  methinks, 
(Out  of  a  fortitude  of  soul  I  feel,) 
To  endure  more  miseries,  and  greater  far, 
Than  my  weak-hearted  enemies  dare  offer. 
What  news  abroad  ? 

Crom.  The  heaviest  and  the  worst, 

Is  your  displeasure  with  the  king. 

"Wol  God  bless  him' 

Crom.  The  next  is  that  Sir  Thomas  More  is  chosen 
Lord  chancellor  in  your  place. 

Wol  That's  somewhat  sudden : 

But  he's  a  learned  man.     May  he  continue 
Long  in  his  highness'  favor,  and  do  justice 
For  truth's  sake,  and  his  conscience  ;  that  his  bones, 
When  he  has  run  his  course,  and  sleeps  in  blessings, 
May  have  a  tomb  of  orphans'  tears  wept  on  'em  ! 
What  more  ? 


442  SHAKSPEAKIAN    iEADER. 

Crow.  That  Cranmeris  return'd  with  welcome, 
Install'd  lord  archbishop  of  Canterbury. 

WoL  That's  news,  indeed. 

Crom.  Last,  that  the  lady  Anne, 

Whom  the  king  hath  in  secrecy  long  married, 
This  day  was  view'd  in  open,  as  his  queen, 
Going  to  chapel ;  and  the  voice  is  now 
Only  about  her  coronation 

WoL  There  was  the  weight  that  pull'd  me  down.     O  Cromwell 
The  king  has  gone  beyond  me :  all  my  glories 
In  that  one  woman  I  have  lost  for  ever. 
No  sun  shall  ever  usher  forth  mine  honors, 
Or  gild  again  the  noble  troops  that  waited 
Upon  my  smiles.     Go,  get  thee  from  me,  Cromwell ; 
I  am  a  poor  fallen  man,  unworthy  now 
To  be  thy  lord  and  master :   Seek  the  king ; 
That  sun,  I  pray,  may  never  set !     I  have  told  him 
What,  and  how  true  thou  art :  ne  will  advance  thee  ; 
Some  little  memory  of  me  will  stir  him, 
(I  know  his  noble  nature,)  not  to  let 
Thy  hopeful  service  perish  too  :  Good  Cromwell, 
Neglect  him  not ;  make  use  now,  and  provide 
For  thine  own  future  safety. 

Crom.  O  my  lord, 

Must  I  then  leave  you  ?  must  I  needs  forego 
So  good,  so  noble,  and  so  true  a  master  ? 
Bear  witness,  all  that  have  not  hearts  of  iron, 
With  what  a  sorrow  Cromwell  leaves  his  lord. — 
The  king  shall  have  my  service ;  but  my  prayers 
For  ever,  and  for  ever,  shall  be  yours. 

WoL  Cromwell,  I  did  not  think  to  shed  a  tear 
In  all  my  miseries  ;  but  thou  hast  forc'd  me 
Out  of  thy  honest  truth  to  play  the  woman. 
Let's  dry  our  eyes  :  and  thus  far  hear  me,  Cromwell, 
And, — when  I  am  forgotten,  as  I  shall  be  ; 
And  sleep  in  dull  cold  marble,  where  no  mention 
Of  me  more  must  be  heard  of, — say,  I  taught  thee ; 
Say,  Wolsey, — that  once  trod  the  ways  of  glory, 
And  sounded  all  the  depths  and  shoals  of  honor, — 
Found  thee  a  way,  out  of  his  wreck  to  rise  in ; 
A  sure  and  safe  one,  though  thy  master  miss'd  it. 
Mark  but  my  fall,  and  that  that'ruin'd  me. 
Cromwell,  I  charge  thee,  fling  away  ambition ; 
By  that  sin  fell  the  angels ;  how  can  man  then, 
The  image  of  his  Maker,  hope  to  win  by't  ? 
Love  thyself  last :  cherish  those  hearts  that  hate  thoo : 
Corruption  wins  not  more  than  honesty. 
Still  in  thy  right  hand  carry  gentle  peace, 
To  silence  envious  tongues.    Be  just,  and  fear  not : 


KING    HENRY    VIII.  443 

Let  all  the  ends,  thou  aiai'st  at,  be  thy  country's, 

Thy  God's,  and  truth's  ;  then,  if  thou  fall'st,  O  Cromwell, 

Thou  fall'st  a  blessed  martyr.     Serve  the  king ; 

And, — Pr'ythee,  lead  me  in : 

There  take  an  inventory  of  all  I  have, 

To  the  last  penny ;  'tis  the  king's  :  my  robe, 

And  my  integrity  to  heaven,  is  all 

I  dare  now  call  mine  own.     O  Cromwell,  Cromwell, 

Had  I  but  serv'd  my  God  with  half  the  zeal 

I  serv'd  my  king,  he  would  not  in  mine  age 

Have  left  me  naked  to  mine  enemies. 

Crom.  Good  sir,  have  patience. 

Wol  So  I  have.     Farewell 

The  hopes  of  court !  my  hopes  in  heaven  do  well.  [ExeunL 

The  following  Scene  ve?y  beautifully  details  the  last  incidents  of  Wolsey    life— and 
•xhibits  the  divorced  Ciueen,  in  her  closing  moments,  a  pattern  of  virtuous  resignation 

ACT  IV. 

SCENE  II.— Kimbolton. 

Enter  KATHARINE,  Dowager,  sick ;  led  between  GRIFFITH  and  PA- 
TIENCE. 

Grif.  How  does  your  grace  ? 

Kath.  O,  Griffith,  sick  to  death : 

My  limbs,  like  loaden  branches,  bow  to  the  earth, 
Willing  to  leave  their  burden :  Reach  a  chair ; 
So, — now,  methinks,  I  feel  a  little  ease. 
Didst  thou  not  tell  me,  Griffith,  as  thou  led'st  me, 
That  the  great  child  of  honor,  cardinal  Wolsey, 
Was  dead? 

Grif.  Yes,  madam  ;  but,  I  think,  your  grace, 

Out  of  the  pain  you  suffer'd,  gave  no  ear  to't. 

Kaih.  Pr'ythee,  good  Griffith,  tell  me  how  he  died 
If  well,  he  stepp'd  before  me,  happily, 
For  my  example. 

Grif.  Well,  the  voice  goes,  madam : 

For  after  the  stout  earl  Northumberland 
Arrested  him  at  York,  and  brought  him  forward 
(As  a  man  sorely  tainted,)  to  his  answer, 
He  fell  sick  suddenly,  and  grew  so  ill, 
He  could  not  sit  his  mule. 

Kath.  Alas,  poor  man  ! 

Grif.  At  last,  with  easy  roads,  he  came  to  Leicester, 
Lodg'd  in  the  abbey  ;  where  the  reverend  abbot, 
With  all  his  convent,  honorably  receiv'd  him ; 
To  whom  he  gave  these  words, — O  father  abbot, 
An  old  man  broken  with  the  storms  of  statet 


444  SHAKSPiiARIAN    READER. 

Is  come  to  lay  his  weary  bones  among  ye  ; 
Give  him  a  little  earth  for  charity ! 
So  went  to  bed  :  where  eagerly  iiis  sickness 
Pursu'd  him  still ;  and,  three  nights  after  this, 
About  the  hour  of  eight,  (which  he  himself 
Foretold,  should  be  his  last,)  full  of  repentance, 
Continual  meditations,  tears,  and  sorrows, 
He  gave  his  honors  to  the  world  again, 
His  blessed  part  to  heaven,  and  slept  in  peace. 

Kaih.  So  may  he  rest ;  his  faults  lie  gently  on  hint, 
And  thus  far,  Griffith,  give  me  leave  to  speak  of  him, 
And  yet  with  charity, — He  was  a  man 
Of  an  unbounded  stomach,  ever  ranking 
Himself  with  princes ;  one,  that  by  suggestion 
Ty'd  all  the  kingdom  :  simony  was  fair  play  ; 
His  own  opinion  was  his  law.     I'  the  presence 
He  would  say  untruths  ;  and  be  ever  double, 
Both  in  his  words  and  meaning :  He  was  never, 
But  where  he  meant  to  ruin,  pitiful ; 
His  promises  were,  as  he  then  was,  mighty ; 
But  his  performance,  as  he  is  now,  nothing. 
Of  his  own  body  he  was  ill,  and  gave 
The  clergy  ill  example. 

Grif.  Noble  madam, 

Men's  evil  manners  live  in  brass ;  their  virtues 
We  write  in  water.     May  it  please  your  highness 
To  hear  me  speak  his  good  now  ? 

Kaih.  Yes,  good  Griffith; 

I  were  malicious  else. 

Grif.  This  cardinal, 

Though  from  an  humble  stock,  undoubtedly 
Was  fashion'd  to  much  honor.     From  his  cradle, 
He  was  a  scholar,  and  a  ripe,  and  good  one ; 
Exceeding  wise,  fair  spoken,  and  persuading : 
Lofty,  and  sour,  to  them  that  lov'd  him  not ; 
But,  to  those  men  that  sought  him,  sweet  as  summer. 
And  though  he  were  unsatisfied  in  getting, 
(Which  was  a  sin,)  yet,  in  bestowing,  madam, 
He  was  most  princely ;  Ever  witness  for  him 
Those  twins  of  learning,  that  he  rais'd  in  you, 
Ipswich,  and  Oxford  !  one  of  which  fell  with  bin, 
Unwilling  to  outlive  the  good  that  did  it ; 
The  other,  though  unfinish'd,  yet  so  famous, 
So  excellent  in  art,  and  still  so  rising, 
That  Christendom  shall  ever  speak  his  virtue. 
His  overthrow  heap'd  happiness  upon  him 
For  then,  and  not  till  then,  he  felt  himself, 
And  found  the  blessedness  of  being  little : 


KING    HENRY   VIII.  4 15 

And,  to  add  greater  honors  to  his  age 
Than  man  could  give  him,  he  died  fearing  God. 
Kath.  After  my  death  I  wish  no  other  herald, 
No  other  speaker  of  my  living  actions, 
To  keep  mine  honor  frDm  corruption, 
But  such  an  honest  chronicler  as  Griffith. 
Whom  I  most  hated  living,  thou  hast  made  me, 
With  thy  religious  truth,  and  modesty, 
Now  in  his  ashes  honor  :  Peace  be  with  him ! — 
Patience,  be  near  me  still ;  and  set  me  lower : 
I  have  not  long  to  ^rouble  thee. — Good  Griffith, 
Cause  the  musicians  play  me  that  sad  note 
I  nam'd  my  knell,  whilst  I  sit  meditating 
On  that  celestial  harmony  I  go  to. 

Sad  and  solemn  music. 

Grif.  She  is  asleep :    Good  wench,  let's  sit  down  quiet, 
For  fear  we  wake  her ; — Softly,  gentle  Patience. 

Kath.    ( Wakes.}   Spirits  of  peace,  where  are  ye  ?     Are  ye  all 

gone? 
And  leave  me  here  in  wretchedness  behind  ye  ? 

Grif.  Madam,  we  are  here. 

Kath.  It  is  not  you  I  call  for : 

Saw  ye  none  enter,  since  I  slept? 

Grif.  None,  madam. 

Kath.  No  ?     Saw  you  not,  even  now,  a  blessed  troop 
Invite  me  to  a  banquet ;  whose  bright  faces 
Cast  thousand  beams  upon  me,  like  the  sun  ? 
They  promis'd  me  eternal  happiness ; 
And  brought  me  garlands,  Griffith,  which  I  feel 
1  am  not  worthy  yet  to  wear :  I  shall,- 
Assuredly. 

Grif.  I  am  most  joyful,  madam,  such  good  dreams 
Possess  your  fancy. 

Kath.  Bid  the  music  leave, 

They  are  harsh  and  heavy  to  me.  [Music  cease* 

Pat.  Do  you  note, 

How  much  her  grace  is  alter'd  on  a  sudden  , 
How  long  her  face  is  drawn  ?    How  pale  she  looks, 
And  of  an  earthly  cold  ?     Mark  you  her  eyes  ? 

Grif.  She  is  going ;  pray,  pray. 

Pat.  Heaven  comfort  her ! 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  An't  like  your  grace, — 

Kath.  You  are  a  saucy  fellow. 

Deserve  we  no  more  reverence  ? 

Grif.  You  are  to  blame 


446  SHAKSPEAR1AN    READER. 

Knowing,  she  will  not  lose  her  wonted  greatness 
To  use  so  rude  behavior :    go  to,  kneel. 

Mess.  I  humbly  do  entreat  your  highness'  pardon ; 
My  haste  made  me  unmannerly :    There  is  staying 
A  gentleman,  sent  from  the  king,  to  see  you. 

Kath.  Admit  him  entrance,  Griffith  :  But  this  fellow 
Let  me  ne'er  see  again.  [Exeunt  GRIFFITH  <f-  Messenger, 

Re-enter  QRIFFITH,  with  CAPUCIUS. 

You  should  be  lord  ambassador  from  the  emperor, 
My  royal  nephew,  and  your  name  Capucius. 

Cap.  Madam,  the  same,  your  servant. 

Kath.  O,  my  lord, 

The  times,  and  titles,  now  are  altered  strangely 
With  me,  since  first  you  knew  me.     But,  I  pray  you, 
What  is  your  pleasure  with  me  ? 

Cap.  Noble  lady, 

First  mine  own  service  to  your  grace  ;  the  next, 
The  king's  request  that  I  would  visit  you ; 
Who  grieves  much  for  your  weakness,  and  by  me 
Sends  you  his  princely  commendations, 
And  heartily  entreats  you  take  good  comfort. 

Kath.  O  my  good  lord,  that  comfort  comes  too  late  ; 
'Tis  like  a  pardon  after  execution  : 
That  gentle  physic,  given  in  time,  had  cur'd  me  •, 
But  now  I  am  past  all  comforts  here,  but  prayers. 
How  does  his  highness  ? 

Cap.  Madam,  in  good  health. 

Kath.  So  may  he  ever  do  !  and  ever  flourish, 
When  I  shall  dwell  wit'h  worms,  and  my  poor  name 
Banish'd  the  kingdom  ! — Patience,  is  that  letter, 
I  caus'd  you  write,  yet  sent  away  ? 

Pat.  No,  madam.  [Giving  it  to  KATHARINE, 

Kath.  Sir,  I  most  humbly  pray  you  to  deliver 
This  to  my  lord  the  king. 

Cap.  Most  willingly,  madam. 

Kath.  In  which  I  have  commended  to  his  goodness 
The  model  of  our  chaste  loves,  his  young  daughter :— • 
The  dews  of  heaven  fall  thick  in  blessings  on  her ! — 
Beseeching  him,  to  give  her  virtuous  breeding ; 
(She  is  young,  and  of  a  noble  modest  nature ; 
I  hope,  she  will  deserve  well ;)  and  a  little 
To  love  her  for  her  mother's  sake,  that  lov'd  him, 
Heaven  knows  how  dearly.     My  next  poor  petition 
Is,  that  his  noble  grace  would  have  some  pity 
Upon  my  wretched  women,  that  so  long, 
Have  folio w'd  both  my  fortunes  faithfully : 
Of  which  there  is  not  one,  I  dare  avow, 
(And  now  I  should  not  lie,)  but  will  deserve, 


KING    HENRY    VIII.  447 

For  virtue,  and  true  beauty  of  the  soul, 

For  honesty,  and  decent  carriage, 

A  right  good  husband,  let  him  be  a  noble ; 

And,  sure,  those  men  are  happy  that  shall  have  them. 

The  last  is,  for  my  men  ; — they  are  the  poorest, 

But  poverty  could  never  draw  them  from  me ; — 

That  they  may  have  their  wages  duly  paid  them, 

And  something  over  to  remember  me  by  ; 

If  heaven  had  pleas'd  to  have  given  me  longer  life, 

And  able  means,  we  had  not  parted  thus. 

These  are  the  whole  contents :  And,  good  my  lord, 

By  that  you  love  the  dearest  in  this  world, 

As  you  wish  Christian  peace  to  souls  departed, 

Stand  these  poor  people's  friend,  and  urge  the  king 

To  do  me  this  last  right. 

Cap.  By  heaven,  I  will ; 

Or  let  me  lose  the  fashion  of  a  man  ! 

Kath.  I  thank  you,  honest  lord.     Remember  me 
In  all  humility  unto  his  highness  : 
Say,  his  long  trouble  now  is  passing 
Out  of  this  world  :  tell  him,  in  death  I  bless'd  him, 
For  so  I  will. — Mine  eyes  grow  dim. — Farewell, 
My  lord. — Griffith,  farewell. — Nay,  Patience, 
You  must  not  leave  me  yet.     I  must  to  bed  ; 
Call  in  more  women. — When  I  am  dead,  good  wench, 
Let  me  be  us'd  with  honor ;  strew  me  over 
With  maiden  flowers,  that  all  the  world  may  know 
I  was  a  chaste  wife  to  my  grave  :  embalm  me, 
Then  lay  me  forth  :  although  unqueen'd,  yet  like 
A  queen,  and  daughter  to  a  king,  inter  me. 
I  can  no  more. [Exeunt,  leading 


THE  END. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
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